


In holy matrimony

by adreadfulidea



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Marriage of Convenience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-04-25 02:00:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4942375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreadfulidea/pseuds/adreadfulidea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If anyone had asked Ginsberg what he imagined living in exile to be like, he would have said: it would be cold. It would be isolated. A cabin in a thick forest or on a steep cliff. The snowy winds of Siberia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write a fake dating fic for awhile, as well as one with Ginsberg in California - so here it is. Do not seek accuracy concerning taxation or criminal investigations herein. This is going to be a slapstick soap opera. Set post finale, kinda.

 

 

If anyone had asked Ginsberg what he imagined living in exile to be like, he would have said: it would be cold. It would be isolated. A cabin in a thick forest or on a steep cliff. The snowy winds of Siberia.

He wouldn’t have thought to mention beaches, or a clear blue ocean as far as the eye could see. Palm trees along the roads like a postcard - visit beautiful Los Angeles. Sunlight in his eyes, always.

He missed New York so bad it made him sick.

It was his father, of all people, who convinced him to give the transfer a shot. Ginsberg had wanted to quit; he could find another job in New York. He could _always_ find another job. But Morris had said, “another job doing _this_? You worked so hard, Michael. I’d hate to see that be for nothing.”

It was shaky ground he was on. Stan despaired of him. “I don’t know why you always have to go after people who could crush you like a bug,” he’d said. “Pick a fight with someone your own size for once.”

Fucking Cutler. He had some nerve to make Ginsberg uproot his entire life and then retire on a huge payout.

The merger with McCann-Erickson could have - _should_ have ended the great Los Angeles experiment. Ginsberg had never needed any encouragement to burn his bridges. His matches were always ready. He would have gone home if not for Megan.

He called her once the head office bothered to get in touch with him. That was what he did now, when anything happened - bad or good; he called Megan. Because he was pathetic.

“Hello?” She murmured it into the phone like something out of a daydream. Her voice was low and scratchy.

“It’s me,” he said, because that ought to put a stop to any accidental pillow talk.

“Oh,” she said. There was a rustling sound that he would bet was her turning over in bed. “Hi, honey.”

He ignored the fluttering in his chest. It happened every time she called him some sweet little endearment that didn’t mean anything. Hearts weren’t heads. They were animal-stupid; they never listened to sense.

“Tell me you didn’t just wake up,” he said. “It’s past noon.”

“Ten past,” she said. “And I had a late night.”

“Probably a better one than mine,” he said. “A pipe leaked through the ceiling, right above my bed.” He had to drag it over to the other side of the room just so he could sleep, and change the sheets.

“I don’t know why you still live in that dump,” she said. “Wasn’t it supposed to be temporary?”

It was. He hadn’t signed a lease because it was the sort of building that didn’t ask tenants to. Which ought to have been a big hint, but he wasn’t planning on staying long. In and out in under six months, he thought. By the time of the merger he had been in L.A. longer than a year.

“Who says it isn’t?” he asked.

“So they are closing down,” she said. He thought he heard disappointment - but no. No, that was wishful thinking. He had to stop doing that.

“They’re keeping us open,” he said. “For now. But they’re not sending anyone else out.” Pete had gone back to New York and then on to his fancy new job; Lou was currently destroying Tokyo. Neither of them had ever been replaced. “I guess the accounts guys will fly out once in awhile.”

“That’s good, right?” she said. “That you aren’t fired, at least.”

“Yeah,” he said, but he didn’t know if he meant it. Getting booted out would have given him an excuse to go home. Going home meant never seeing Megan again. He had no idea what he wanted.

“Well,” she said. “I’m going to go ahead and selfishly be happy whether you are or not. ”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I know I don’t,” she said. “I mean it.”

“Oh,” he said. He was glad she couldn’t see him, how red his face was getting. “Uh. Thanks.”

“What’s your name?”

“What?”

“Of the company,” she said. “What are you going to be called? McCann West, or something?”

“They haven’t told me yet,” he said. “I’ll find out when the new letterhead arrives.”

“The worst part of the wait is over. That’s the important thing.” He heard the click of a lighter and she inhaled deeply.

“I wish you’d quit,” he said. “That shit will kill you one day.”

“Michael,” she growled. “Do not start with me.”

“It’s not me, Megan. It’s the Surgeon General -”

“I don’t want to hear about the Surgeon General. I just woke up. Have some mercy.”

“Fine, fine. I’d better go inform the troops anyway,” he said. “She’s been wondering.”

Meredith was at her desk when he opened the door. Her head swiveled towards him immediately. With her big hair and frilly get-ups she reminded him of a porcelain doll. Today’s dress was sunshine yellow and had a headband to match.

“We’re not dead yet,” he said. “But I can’t make any promises about the future.”

“That’s great news!” She clapped her hands in excitement. Unlike him, she loved Los Angeles. “I wouldn’t have a problem getting work, but I was _so_ worried about you.”

He stared at her. “... that’s very thoughtful of you.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Wait - are you my boss, now? Do I have to start calling you Mr. Ginsberg?”

“Please don’t.”

“Good,” she said. “I like us being friends much better.”

“I… like that, too,” he said without a very clear idea of what he was agreeing with. He decided to go back into his office before she threw any further revelations about their relationship at him.

“You’re supposed to call Peggy Olson after lunch!” she yelled as he retreated. “Don’t forget!”

 

 

Megan breezed into his office without Meredith announcing her, which meant the front was unattended. Meredith had presumably gone home already; he didn’t track her hours very intently.

He checked the clock. It was seven-thirty, and he was supposed to be done by now.

Megan was wearing a green raincoat that was dotted with drops of water. Her hair was windblown, too. She sat on the edge of his desk and leaned over to read what he was writing, smelling like a cool breeze.

“You didn’t bring an umbrella, did you?” she asked.

“Nope,” he said.

“You never do,” she said. “Want to borrow my scarf?”

“Why are you so bundled up, anyway?” he asked. “It’s only drizzling.”

She pouted at him. “It’s cold.”

“Megan, you’re _Canadian_.”

“We don’t live in igloos, you ignorant American. Now hurry up - I made reservations.”

“I can’t,” he said.

She looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

“I’m serious,” he said.

“You have to eat anyway,” she said. “You might as well come with me. I promise I won’t keep you out all night.”

“Are you sure?” he asked with no small amount of suspicion. The last time she said something similar they ended up in Miami Beach at two in the morning. And it was a Friday. Megan took her weekends seriously. Or took his seriously, since she didn’t really have to work anymore.

“I’m sure,” she said.

He suspected she was crossing her fingers behind her back, but went with her anyway.

 

 

They got back to Megan's place after midnight. She had to help him up the stairs.

"You were lying," he said. "I knew you were lying -"

"But you let me get away with it," she said with a grin. "Come on, you wanted to go. You never let yourself have any fun. You - oof." She fumbled with her keys, propping him up against her shoulder.

He found it very funny, for some reason, and collapsed in giggles. Everything was very funny just now.

" - and," she said, ignoring his hysterics to slide the key into the lock, "I was right, wasn't I? You enjoyed yourself. Met some interesting people."

"I liked, uh - what was he called." Ginsberg tried to puzzle out the name, but he could only recall vague impressions. Tall, with a nice jawline and a better smile. "The big guy. The good-looking one. Really good-looking."

"Jeff," she said as they staggered through the door. "His name was Jeff. He liked you too."

"Did he?" said Ginsberg. "That's nice. That's so nice. He just got out of the navy, you know. He told me."

Megan kicked off her shoes and led him over to the sofa. "You know what they say about the navy."

"Nope," said Ginsberg. He leaned back against the cushions and wondered why the ceiling was spinning - oh. He was laying down.

"Never mind," she said. "Did he give you his phone number?"

"No," said Ginsberg. "He gave me - what was it. We had a lot of it."

"Tequila," she said, and sat down by his feet to get started on his shoelaces. "His loss, then."

"It tasted like antifreeze," he said. "But I kept drinking it anyway. Why'd I do that?"

"He had adorable dimples," she said. "Do you feel bad? Sick?"

"No," he said. "Just kinda," he waved his hand around in a circle, which illustrated his point perfectly. "Swooshy."

"That's one way to put it," she said, breaking through the knots with her fingernails. He'd tied them tight. The shoes were a little too big.

She brought them over to the coat closet. He sat up.

"Where are you going?" he said. "I need those. I need to go home."

"I don't think so," she said, and pushed him back down when she came over. "You're staying right there."

"If you say so." It was comfortable, and everything was blurring when he moved too fast. He would stay until the spinning stopped.

"I'm saying so." She vanished into some unseen corner of the apartment. He heard water running, and hummed a tune to himself until he forgot what the song was.

“Where did my car go?” he asked the universe in general.

Megan set a large glass of water on the coffee table. "Do yourself a favor and drink that at some point tonight." She peered down into his face and smiled, amused. "Look at you. You're a mess."

"You're my favorite person," he said. It was very, very important that she know. Because - it just was. "My favorite."

She looked startled, and he thought he had done something wrong. But then she smiled again, sweetly, and kissed him quickly on the cheek.

"You're a much cuter drunk than Don was," she said. "I'll give you that."

 

 

If Megan thought he was a mess while he was drunk, that was nothing compared to the aftermath.

He woke up feeling like mice were chewing through the wiring in his brain. The inside of his mouth tasted like one of them had died in there. He was still in his clothes, all sweaty and gross. He needed a shower. No, two showers.

When he opened his eyes the light stabbed its way in. He whimpered and tried to burrow into the couch cushions.

There was a cool hand on his overheated forehead. “I told you to drink that water. It would have helped with the headache.”

“Euuuugh,” said Ginsberg, and wished passionately for death to take him.

“There’s aspirin in the medicine cabinet,” said Megan. “And an extra toothbrush, if you need it.”

He dragged his sorry corpus into the bathroom and beheld the reflection that stared back at him with an appropriate amount of horror. Half his hair was crushed flat and the other half was standing straight up. The bags under his eyes and morning-after pallor were not helped by the poor lighting. There was a mysterious bruise on the side of his neck and please god let that have gotten there in some totally ordinary way. He looked like hammered shit.

“Megan,” he called, and winced at the sound of his own voice. Was he always that loud? “Can I use your shower?”

“Knock yourself out,” she replied. There was a pause. “Don’t do that literally. I don’t want to have to fish you out of there.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. There was one benefit to being so goddamned hungover; it kept him from from focusing on being naked with Megan only a few feet away.

Except maybe not, because while he was scrubbing himself down with her girly soap - he was going to smell like jasmine for the rest of the day, which may not have been his first choice but was sure as hell better than the alternative - she knocked on the door and he jumped like she’d goosed him.

“Yes?” he squeaked out, as shrill as a thirteen year old boy getting a hard-on in front of the whole class while trying to solve for _x_ on the chalkboard. Not that he’d been that boy, or anything.

“I’m putting some towels down,” she said. “Right by the door, so you can get them when you’re ready. I promise I won’t peek.”

“Okay,” he said, gently bouncing his head off the tiles while thinking unsexy thoughts. It got water in his eyes, which he deserved.

He did open the door to get the towels, but only because he couldn’t figure out a way to pull them through solid wood. No, instead he crouched down like some bizarre bare-assed goblin and groped around until he felt terrycloth, trying to cover everything in case - in case of what. In case she walked by? Asked to be let in? Why would she do that. He was losing his fucking mind. Alcohol really did kill brain cells.

Afterward he put his clothes back on because he had nothing else to wear. Not unless he wanted to borrow Megan’s coral pink bathrobe, which was hanging off the doorknob. He also brushed his teeth, surprised to find there was nothing actually growing on them.

She was happily chomping on a piece of toast when he got back to the kitchen. He wanted to forget food existed.

“You could try a hair of the dog,” she said as he sat down across from her.

“That doesn’t sound appetizing even on a good day,” he said. His stomach lurched even thinking about it; he wasn’t going to risk coffee either. “Why do they call it that?”

She shrugged. “Probably to discourage people from needing it.”

He rubbed a hand across his face. “This my own fault. I should’ve known better than to - did I seriously try to outdrink a _sailor_?”

“You seriously did,” she said. “I think you were trying to impress him.”

He groaned and put his head down on the table. “What else did I do? Tell me I didn’t take off my clothes in public or nothing. Lie if you have to.”

When she didn’t answer he straightened up in a panic that he might have done exactly that; but she was looking at him with warm, fond eyes, smiling behind her coffee mug.

“What?” he asked.

“You told me I was your favorite person,” she said.

“Oh.” He cleared his throat and scratched his head. She seemed pleased, which was a relief. He knew he was blushing but there was nothing he could do about that. Might as well cop to it. “Uh,” he said, gruffly. “That’s true. Anyway.”

To change the subject he picked up a letter that was lying on the kitchen table. “What’s this?” he asked, and it was an idle question until he focused on it, on the seal on the letterhead. “The IRS? This must be important.”

She got up to clear away her dishes. “I have to meet with them on Monday. I’m sure it’s about my tax situation changing because Don gave me that money.” She put the plate in the sink under running water and glanced back at him, over her shoulder. “I’m not too worried about it.”

 

 

Meredith patched the call through. “It’s Megan,” she said. “She’s, um - kind of upset. But you have to leave for a meeting in fifteen minutes -”

“Cancel it if I’m not out the door by then,” he told her.

“But the New York office set this one up, remember -”

“ _Meredith_ ,” he snapped. “Can you just do it, please?”

“Are you _crying_?” he asked Megan thirty seconds later. “Oh my god, what happened? Tell me.”

“No,” she said, but she sounded funny - choked up, like the worst kind of allergies. She sniffed suspiciously and continued, “but I’m - I’m really scared, Michael. I could be in big trouble.”

“How -” he said, and then realized he didn’t have to ask. That IRS letter. He _knew_ it was bad news. “Are they taking your money? You can fight that.” But the bottom dropped out of his stomach as soon as he said the words out loud. He didn’t know if she could fight it. Who could? Uncle Sam always won.

She laughed and it was tight and bitter and not her pretty, lighthearted laugh at all. “It could be so much worse than that. I know you’re working -”

“I’m coming right down,” he said. “You’re at home, right? Don’t go anywhere.”

“I won’t,” she said, and it killed him to hear how small and beaten down she sounded.

“Meredith, cancel anything I’ve got for the afternoon,” he said, stepping out of the door. “I won’t be coming back.”

She looked at him with huge saucer-eyes and he stopped dead. Shit, he’d been way too short with her before. He was going to have to get her flowers or something to make up for it.

“Is Megan going to be okay?” she asked. “She didn’t get into an accident, did she?”

“She’ll be fine,” he reassured her. “I’m taking care of it. I’ll - I’ll call you if you need to know anything, alright?” Like if he and Megan had to flee the country together.

He drove with clammy palms and his heart in his throat. When she opened the door he tried to put on a brave face for her; an it’ll-be-okay face. It felt false.

If she noticed she didn’t say anything. “Oh, _Michael_ ,” she said, and practically jumped on him.

He managed to get her inside, though the way she was clinging to him made it difficult to move.

They walked over to the couch; she didn’t let go of him the whole way. He was really starting to get scared, but he did his best to hide it. That wasn’t what she needed.

He took her hands as they sat down. “Tell me everything. All of it.”

She was the color of chalk and her nose was all pink from crying. When she spoke it was shivery and hoarse. “I’m going to be audited. Which I guess I should have expected - but - I could handle that. Maybe I could, if that was all.”

“What else is there?”

She pulled her hands out of his and rose abruptly. She clasped them, fingers twisting together, as she paced back and forth. He had never seen someone wring their hands in real life before. “The FBI is involved.”

“I - why?” he asked, bewildered. “It’s not like you robbed a bank.”

“It’s not me,” she said. “It’s Don. They want to ask me about Don. Which means they know.”

“Know what? Megan, I don’t understand what you’re saying. What do they know?”

She stood in front of him, stock still. Her knuckles were white. She let out a sigh that seemed to shake through her; and then she dropped an atomic bomb.

“That he isn’t Don Draper.”

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is built from clichés. Avert your eyes from my shame.
> 
> (All legal info contained within is to be taken with a grain of salt.)

 

 

 

“Fucking _what_ ,” Ginsberg said.

“His name is actually Dick Whitman,” she said, all in a rush like she had to get it out before a timer went off. “Don Draper was his sergeant in Korea. There was some kind of accident - they were building a hospital, the whole thing exploded - I don’t why - and he died. Don Draper died.”

“So then - Don - or Dick, I guess - he said he was the dead guy? _Why_?”

“How am I supposed to know, I never understood why Don did anything!” She threw her hands up in the air. “He hated his family. He hated where he came from. I didn’t get much more out of him than that.”

“Okay, who cares about Don. Dick. _Whoever_ ,” said Michael. “He call himself whatever he wants.” In the end it didn’t matter why Don couldn’t just change his name legally, move, leave behind whatever it was he had been on the run from. The point was he hadn’t, and now Megan had to deal with the consequences.

“I actually thought I was special because he told me,” said Megan. “I thought he _trusted_ me. I am such an idiot.” She started pacing again, back on forth, her face twisted with anger and panic. “I’m going to prison.”

“Don’t call yourself that,” Ginsberg said. “And sit down. Megan, please sit. You’re bouncing around like a ping-pong ball.”

“You do this all the time!” she snapped. At least she stopped moving.

“That’s why I know it’s bad!”

She plopped down next to him, suddenly, like all the energy had escaped her body at once. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be snapping at you. I’m just so worried.” She sniffed and rubbed the back of her hand against her nose. “Everything was getting so much better. I was really happy.”

“You’ll be happy again,” he said, firmly. “This is not the end! We won’t fucking _let_ it be.”

It was pretty terrible as far rally the troops speeches went, but it was the best he could do. And she smiled at him, all watery-eyed. “We?”

“What?”

“You said we.”

“I - well, I’m your friend.” He could feel a nervous flush marching hideously across his face. Once it got going it was impossible to stop. “I’m gonna help you. You aren’t alone.”

“Oh god,” she said. “You’re so _nice_.” There was a weird moment where she stared at him really intently, her cheeks going pink too, and he had this weird charge run through him like -

But then she came back to herself, and so did he. Whatever circuitry had accidentally activated died down.

“I wish I knew what to do,” she said. “That’s all.”

Shit, not like he was some kind of expert. But he wanted so badly to help. They needed -

“A lawyer,” he said. “I’ll phone a lawyer for you, if you don’t feel up to it. Get some solid legal advice. I can just pretend it’s for me.”

“Yeah,” she said, still smiling. “You sound really Canadian.”

“Hey, I’ve heard your Mom, right?” he said. “I’ll imitate her.” He’d picked up the phone when Marie had called, once. That was back when Don and Megan were still married. Without anyone actually saying it Ginsberg had gotten the impression that nobody was supposed to know that they were friends; Marie sure as hell wouldn’t approve and Don was… _Don_. Megan had been trying to make her marriage work. He didn’t want to cause trouble for her.

So he had pretended to be a plumber. Megan still asked if him if he was there to unclog the pipes, sometimes, when he came over.

“Well,  _that_ is certainly an image,” she said, and wrapped both her hands around one of his. “I really do feel better. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” she insisted, and kissed him on the cheek. Like she had the night he told her that she was his favorite person; like she had a hundred times before. Megan was really physically affectionate. Only this time she got his mouth, sort of, the side of it.

It seemed to take her forever to pull back.

“Uh,” he said. His mind had emptied out completely, white as a snowstorm.

“I’m going to make some tea,” she said, brightly. “You want tea?”

“Sure,” he said, even though he didn’t like tea very much. “That’s - that sounds great. Yeah, great.”

She bounced up off the couch and went into the kitchen. He stayed there, totally pathetic with his hands clasping his knees, trying to get his head back together. Trying not to want things he couldn’t have. His lips tingled; he bit them to make it stop.

 

Ginsberg called Megan from a payphone down on the street. It was overkill, but Meredith had ears like a bat and was always asking questions. He looked up at their office window, fully expecting to see her looking out.

She wasn’t, though. He picked up the phone and dialed.

Megan answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“Good,” she said. “Every time someone calls I think it’s the IRS again. I went to get some books on immigration and taxes from the library and felt like I was missing something important the whole time.”

“I spoke to the lawyer over lunch,” he said. “I said I was asking for my sister-in-law who just got divorced.”

“Guess you didn’t take your fictional brother’s side.”

“He’s a prick,” said Ginsberg. “Used to kick the shit of me when we were kids. Anyway - I asked about the FBI involvement first. He said that’s actually the less pressing issue.”

“Really? Why?”

“First of all even if they charged you with obstruction of justice it probably wouldn’t stick. It’s a hard one to prove. You were married to Don, so you had the expectation of spousal privilege. That covers all confidential conversations during the marriage and extends past it. Even after you split up.” He held up his notes; they were crumpled and the ink smeared. He’d shoved them in his pocket when Meredith had knocked on his office door. “They could maybe force you to testify against him, but probably won’t because of what I said before. You only know the bare bones story anyway. That isn’t so useful to them - they must already know themselves, if they’re coming after him.”

“I have never been so happy to be considered useless.”

“Uh,” he said, his stomach twisting up. He hated delivering bad news. “There might be trouble with the IRS, though. And your citizenship.”

“Okay,” she said, sounding firm and composed. “Lay it on me.”

“How far did you get into your immigration books?”

“Not very. They’re dense as hell, I was getting confused.”

“According to the lawyer the issue is not just with your divorce settlement, but with the marriage itself.”

“How?” she asked. “We _were_ officially married. Had a wedding and everything. Not even the Vegas kind.”

“Yeah,” he said, “but the problem is you weren’t marrying _Don Draper_.”

There was a long, tense pause. And then she swore, loudly, right in his ear. “Fuck! Fuck fuck _fuck_.”

He winced. “Sorry.”

“I’ll kill him.”

“Adding murder to the pile probably won’t help. Besides, you’d have to find him first.”

“Wait. Wouldn’t that apply to spousal privilege and whatever else?”

“He told you about Dick Whitman after you got hitched, right?”

“Yes. Does it matter?”

“It might,” he said. “It’s kinda a weird situation. You entered into the marriage in good faith, but he was committing fraud. That’s not on you. Like I said, you might have to testify if it came down to that. But the point is you could argue that you thought you weren’t supposed to tell, that you thought your marriage was real - look, you’re the sympathetic one here. Or -”

“Or what?”

“Or you could cooperate with the FBI. Then they’ll have no reason to charge you with anything.”

Another pause. “I’ll think about it.”

“But it affects your audit. If the marriage isn’t valid, neither is your citizenship _from_ the marriage. So you’re paying taxes as a resident alien, which can affect your visa.”

“It can bounce,” said Megan. “I did get that much from the books. If I leave the country, right?”

“Plus there’s the question of whether your invalid marriage means you were here illegally in the first place.”

“ _Am_ I?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not even sure the lawyer knew, because there’s not a lot of precedent for your case. He said he’d never heard of anything like it.”

“I need a drink,” she moaned.

That made two of them. “Go get one,” he said. “I’ll wait.” While she was gone he fed a couple more coins into the phone.

“How long were you talking to him?” she asked when she came back. “Did you meet in person?”

“Called,” he said. “It took about an hour.”

“Wow,” she said. He heard ice clinking. “He must be the most generous lawyer ever to do that for free.”

It _hadn’t_ been free, but Ginsberg wasn’t about to tell her so. “He says it’s a good idea to get one of your own. They can’t tell the feds anything you talk about, lawyers. So you don’t have to worry.”

“I’ll start looking as soon as you hang up,” she said.

“Does that mean you want me to hang up?”

“Of course not,” she said. “Are you in your office?”

“No.” Ginsberg twisted the cord around his fingers. “I didn’t want Meredith to hear.”

“Jesus,” she said. “I owe you big. I should - I don’t know. Bake you a cake, or something.”

“Do you know how?” he asked. “You made pancakes that one time and they were terrible.”

“I forgot the baking powder,” she said. “My mother wanted me to learn how to cook, so I never did.”

“Do you feel more sure about any of this?”

“No. Maybe.”

“I wish I - I don’t know. Could fix something for once.” He got sent out to Los Angeles, she was probably going back to Canada. They were playing a fixed game and the house always won. He thought about Don and felt a wave of contempt. For getting Megan in this mess in the first place, yes, but also for being able to leave and hide in plain sight. No one ever told Don Draper he didn’t belong anywhere, even after he set the place on fire.

“You’ve done plenty,” she said. “What are you doing after work?”

“Coming over?”

He swore he could hear her smile. “If you _must_.”

She called him honey again, before hanging up. “Bye, honey,” just like that, and that was all it took to light him up, to leave him standing there grinning at nothing like a yutz.

 

She was stoned when he showed up. A half-smoked joint hanging from her lips and her hair all mussed from lounging around. The balcony doors were thrown open and it was bright again, the rain clouds from earlier in the week chased off by sunlight and the kind of bell-jar heat that the city was so good at developing. He’d taken his jacket off on the way over, felt the back of his neck prickle as he walked across the parking lot and up the stairs. Megan wore a yellow bikini top and shorts. She blew out smoke as she brushed past him, smelling like pot and jasmine suntan oil.

“I wanted to take the edge off,” she said.

“Did it work?”

She held the joint between two of her fingers and blinked at it slowly. Ginsberg wondered how many she’d had. “A little.” She extended her arm, offering it to him, as she always did. He turned her down, as he always did.

“Want to go outside?”

She did, and he followed her in his sock feet. The sky was clear of smog and he could see out into the canyons. He walked up to the railing and leaned against it. Fuck, it was hot.

“Aren’t you uncomfortable?” she asked. “For god’s sake, take off the tie at least.”

He tossed it on the round table she used to primarily to support drinks and an ashtray. “Not everyone grew up in the middle of an ice floe, or whatever Quebec is.”

“That doesn’t make sense coming from a guy who used to live in _Sweden_.”

“For five whole years.” She was right, and he was going to start sweating through his shirt in a minute.

“You know that nobody can see you up here,” she said. “You can get undressed if you want.”

He stared at her, openly. “How high are you right now?”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t mean naked, I haven’t lost my mind. I meant you could sit around in your underwear if you wanted.”

“Megan, I’m serious. How much did you smoke.”

She looked down, and then down further. Right at his crotch. Which was insane - so insane that it couldn’t be happening, and he had either picked up one hell of a contact high or was stroking out in the office while poor Meredith tried and failed to save his life. He had to be in his dying throes, nothing else made sense. If he was gonna go, he thought wildly, then this wasn’t such a bad way.

Megan raised her eyebrows. “... are they gross?”

“Are what gross?”

“Your underwear.”

“No,” he said, outraged. “They’re totally normal shorts!”

“Then what’s the big deal? It’s no different than being in a swimsuit.” She made a gesture that encompassed all of herself. “You don’t care about me doing it.”

He didn’t _care_. That was - that was just - he had no idea what to say to that. Contrary to popular opinion, Ginsberg did not plan to flame out into disaster before he even saw the downslope of thirty. And because he was not actively suicidal, he was not going to sit on a balcony in his boxers, next to Megan’s expanse of bare skin, with nothing but a thin layer of fabric between himself and God’s judgement.

“It would be inappropriate,” he said, gathering up every ounce of dignity he could muster. She didn’t look impressed.

“Then lose the shirt,” she said. “You look like you’re about to get heatsick.”

“I - you -”

Megan took another drag on the joint, a tiny spark flaring up on the lit end. “You don’t have anything to be ashamed of, you know that right?” She opened her eyes wide, pupils getting bigger by the second. “You’re really handsome, classically. You just dress like shit. And need a better haircut, maybe.”

“Classically,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, excited. “You should let me give you a haircut! I give good haircuts. I almost went to beauty school at one point.”

With her current judgement he would end up bald. He was not a vain man but he was vain enough to want to avoid a scalping. “Not… right now.”

“Aw, man,” she said. “Please.”

“If I take off my shirt,” he said, “will you stop trying to come at me with scissors?”

She thought about it. Very carefully, apparently, because her decision was some time in coming. “Yes.”

“Why do I feel like I’m at the doctor’s?” he muttered, unbuttoning as quickly as he could.

“I think they just want you to undress to amuse themselves,” said Megan. “Bunch of perverts.” She looked sadly down at the remains of her joint, which had burned down to almost nothing. Then she flicked it over the railing.

He stood there in his undershirt, his tatty old button-up balled up in one fist. “Didn’t you say you weren’t supposed to do that? Because of the fires?”

“Oh right,” she gasped, and leaned over the railing. He moved behind her in case she started to tip over - who the fuck knew, at this point. But she straightened up instead and bumped into him. “I better get some water.”

“That’s not gonna help -”

She was determined, though, and came back out with a full watering can and - oh, shit - the baggie of weed clenched in her teeth. With a flourish she poured the water over the edge of the balcony, though he didn’t see exactly where it went on account of covering his eyes with his hand and laughing.

“What?” she asked, looking completely ridiculous with that stupid bag sticking out of her mouth.

“Nothing,” he choked out. “Give me that.”

“The can?”

“No, this,” he said, and snagged the weed from her. When she tried to grab it he slipped it into the back pocket of his pants. “Megan, no. Enough!”

“Fine,” she sulked. She flopped down on her patio chair in dramatic repose. “I want some lemonade. No, cream soda. Do I have cream soda?”

“I dunno,” said Ginsberg. “Check your fridge.”

She drank it lying down. Not on the balcony; inside, on her bed. The room was dark and cooler than the rest of the apartment; she kept the curtains closed all day so it wouldn’t heat up. Somehow she convinced him to lie down next her with their shoulders touching. He could smell the sweetness from the bottle and the traces of tanning oil left on her skin. Could hear the fizz of the soda. He would have spilled everywhere, trying to drink like that.

“See?” she asked in a whisper, and lightly scraped her fingernails down his arm. “Isn’t this better?”

He wasn’t sure if she meant the bedroom, or that he’d taken his shirt off, or what. Either way goosebumps broke out, all over. “Yeah. I guess so.”

Her ceiling fan turned languidly above them. She watched it with heavy-lidded eyes and played with the tie on the front of her bikini top. “I was really starting to like it here.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said.

“Would you come visit me?” she asked. “If I ended up back in Montreal?”

“You have to know that I would,” he said.

“Or jail.”

“You’re not gonna go to jail, either. Did you call any lawyers?”

“I left a bunch of messages with a bunch of secretaries.” She rolled away from him and reached into the drawer of her nightstand for a lighter and her cigarettes. But the pack was empty, so she dropped it on the floor. “I wish I could forget any of this was happening.”

“Isn’t that what the drugs are for?”

Megan laughed and dropped down beside him again. “ _Drugs_. You sound like a tenth grade teacher. Don’t let your peers pressure you into smoking the reefer, children.” She tapped him on the end of the nose, affectionately. “Why don’t you smoke, anyway?”

“It makes people paranoid,” he said. “And I’m nervous enough.”

“Really?” she said. “It calms me down. I was losing it earlier, but see -”

She pulled his hand towards her and put it on her chest. “Smooth and steady.”

He could feel her heart beating under his palm, the warm curve of her breast, and tried to swallow. The inside of his mouth was dry as the Sahara. In desperation he closed his eyes.  
“I see.”

“Michael?”

“What?”

“Why’re your eyes closed?”

“They just are.”

She let go of him and he scooted back to his own side of the bed. “If the grass worked, why do you still need to forget?”

Megan tucked in close to him. She kicked out her feet and crossed an ankle over one of his. “I didn’t say I _forgot_. I’d need a bigger distraction for that.”

“Like what?” he asked. “Coke or something?” He hoped not. People on coke disturbed him.

“Nah,” she said. “The crash afterwards sucks. Feels like being sick, or really hungover.”

“Oh,” he said, blankly. He never would have guessed that she had any personal experience with it. But of course she would; she went out to clubs with people who owned summer houses in Europe and drove sports cars they had to import the gas for. Her friends were young and rich and beautiful. They didn’t have to be careful the way he did.

She traced an abstracted line up her sternum, between her breasts, a soft smile on her face. “I was thinking of sex.”

“That’s something people do every day,” said Ginsberg. “How can it be a distraction?”

It wouldn’t be for him. He would be too worried, too clumsy. Too incompetent.

“If it isn’t, then you aren’t doing it right.” She said, grinning. “I’m talking about great sex. The kind that make you feel shaky after. Makes your knees weak. Where nothing matters but skin and sweat and trying to come. And you _still_ want more. That kind. You know what I mean.”

He cleared his throat and ignored the way his blood was rushing through his veins. “When you put it that way.”

This time her laugh was low and dirty. It made him surrender to the shiver he had been fighting off. She curled into his side and threw a leg across him so he couldn’t flee the room like he really should have been doing. A heap of bombed, lazy girl.

“Wouldn’t it be great to blow off some steam right now?” she said.

“ _What_?” he asked, but got no further in expressing his mortal terror, because the doorbell rang. If he hadn’t been lying down he would have collapsed in relief.

Megan was less amused. “Who the fuck is that?” she snapped, and got up scowling. The back of her head was kind of a rat’s nest, but she got away from him before he could do anything about it.

It was a guy delivering some Mexican, which Megan had ordered earlier and forgotten about through the green haze. Ginsberg paid him - she couldn’t find her purse - and shoved a five into his hand for a tip.

He took off his baseball cap and scratched the back of his head, eyes scrunching up. “You sure? The bill was only $6.50.”

“Take it,” Ginsberg told him. “You deserve it more than you know.”

 

She called him the next morning, before his alarm went off. For once she was the one waking him up.

“Hello?” he said, his face still pressed into the pillow. He expected his father to answer.

“Michael?” Megan said. “I can’t hear you right. What are you doing?”

He sat up and wiped the drool off himself. Not like she could see it, but there was the principle of the thing. “I only just got up. I’m in bed.”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t even think of that.” There was some kind of scraping in the background, like silverware; she must have been in the kitchen.

“You cooking?” he asked. All he had for breakfast was cheerios.

“No,” she said. “Warming up leftovers.”

He stood and picked up the phone. The apartment was small enough that he could walk through it with the cord dragging behind him, so he did. His old friend Jimmy the pigeon had his butt parked on the windowsill outside as usual. Ginsberg tapped on the glass to try and scare him off. He ruffled his feathers, looking like a fat gray pinecone.

“Piss off, Jim,” he said.

“Who’s Jim?” Megan asked.

“A bird - never mind. It’s dumb.”

“You named a bird?”

“He’s around so often I figured I might as well. He keeps picking holes in my screen like an asshole.”

“So call an exterminator.”

“I don’t want him _dead_.”

“How can you tell it’s the same bird?”

“He has a bit more pink on him than the other ones,” Ginsberg said. He tucked the receiver between his neck and shoulder and used his free hand to open a cupboard. It was empty. “What the hell did I do with my coffee?”

“You put it in your fridge,” Megan said, “because you found a roach in the cupboard.”

“Now I remember.” He shuddered with disgust. What a shithole, he thought, taking in the worn carpet and water-stained walls. Even the tenement was better. Maybe he should have listened to her. Maybe he _should_ move.

He propped the fridge door open against his shoulder and sighed at the blast of cool air. “So did you call for a reason? You’re never up this early.”

“I had an idea last night. About my whole situation - how to solidify my position, a bit. But you might think I’m crazy.”

Ginsberg took the can of coffee out of the fridge, holding it by the lid. “You were pretty doped up last night.”

“I know,” she said. “But listen, okay?”

“I’m listening,” he said. “What’s the plan?”

He heard her take a deep breath. “The plan is that we get married,” she said, and he dropped everything - phone, coffee, all of it - to the floor with a crash.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

Ginsberg went woozy in the head. It had been the same when he got told that he was going to LA; a roar in his ears like an untamed ocean and he could feel himself go numb all over. There were coffee grounds spilled across the floor, sticking to his bare feet.

He could hear a small, buzzing voice coming from the receiver. It sounded urgent.

“Michael? _Michael_?” Megan was saying. “Are you there? Did you hang up? I heard -”

“I’m here,” he said. “I dropped the phone.”

“I thought you might’ve been mad,” she said. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

He fell back against the cupboards and looked up at the ceiling. He was sitting in coffee but that was just how the day was going. “I’m not mad.”

“So that means - does that mean - you’ll do it?”

“ _No_.”

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, uh - right. Well, that’s fine!”

“Megan,” he sighed, “you don’t have to pretend you’re okay with me turning you down.”

“But I am,” she said, chirpy and totally fake. “I understand what your reasons are and it was a pretty wild idea in the first place -”

“I don’t get how it would help,” he said. “That’s what I meant.”

“ - and I can always get someone else to do it, right?”

“ _What_ ,” Ginsberg said. “Who. Who else would you ask?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I hadn’t thought about it. Douglas, or someone.”

Douglas was Douglas Wendell Endicott. He was distantly related to the Bouviers and his family owned a yacht and a - a vineyard, or some fucking thing. Like all people with three full names he was an asshole. He moved to the city after gaining access to his trust fund at twenty-one because he wanted to have sex with movie stars, grew his hair out and started wearing bellbottoms. Douglas was always the guy with drugs; especially for the girls. Ginsberg _hated_ Douglas.

“No,” he said, sharply. “Megan, no. You are not marrying fucking Douglas.”

“Why the hell not? I’m not going to be marrying _you_.”

“Douglas is a prick.”

“Because he calls you Mike?”

“Because him calling me Mike is a power play,” Ginsberg said. “Guys do that kinda shit, you probably don’t even notice.”

It was the way he said it. _Mike_ , with this curl of contempt following after the word. The same way he asked if Ginsberg and Megan were seeing each other, one time when she was having a party and they were forced into proximity. “You don’t seem like her type,” he’d said, with that bullshit upper-crust Bostonian accent. “If you don’t mind me saying.” Pretty goddamned territorial, considering Megan wasn’t dating _him_ either. And of course he had been all smiles as soon as she came back into the room.

“Oh for god’s sake, Michael. Not this again.”

“I only brought it up once!” He’d warned her to be careful around the guy, that was all. He was _concerned_.

“Then who? Shawn, or Terry? Amadeo?”

“I thought Amadeo was from Italy.”

“That’s not the point!”

The conversation was sliding rapidly towards conflict , and he didn’t want to be there. “Megan, all I want is for - for you to not be stuck with someone who is going to use your secrets against you. You have to be careful.”

And Megan was never careful. She let weirdos she just met crash at her place, she gave people money every time they asked for it - one jackass took off with five hundred bucks and she never saw him again. She acted like it was her job to take care of strangers. People drifted in and out of her life like snowflakes.

“Well, I’m trying,” she said. “That’s why I asked you. You were the only one I thought of, honestly.”

Ginsberg screwed his eyes shut. He counted to ten, savoring the last few seconds before he was about to be the world’s dumbest sonofabitch. She trusted him.

“What if I say yes?” he asked.

“You don’t have to.”

“But what if I do?”

She was quiet for a minute. “I’d say thank you, and I’ll find a way to make it up to you.”

“I’m not keeping score,” he said.

“No, but I am. You’ve done me a lot of favors lately.”

“No one’s going to believe we got married,” said Ginsberg, desperately. “Unless it’s evidence of a breakdown on your part.” He wished suddenly that he were richer, or taller, or better dressed; things he didn’t care about, had never felt all that bad about not having. But they would have made a sham-marriage a whole lot more believable.

“Michael,” she said, scolding, “we’ve known each other for years. We’re good friends. Lots of relationships come from a solid foundation of friendship. Why wouldn’t I marry you?”

“I can think of ten reasons, right now.”

“They’re all wrong. So there.”

“We’re going to get asked questions,” he said. “By everyone - the government, our families, all your friends -”

“Oh, I’m not telling my family about this. My mother is happy in Paris and my father is… happy in ignorance. They do not need to be involved.”

Ginsberg had to admit she had a point. Telling his father that he had some kind of quickie wedding, and to a Catholic girl at that - bad idea all around. If it looked like the IRS was planning on ambushing him then Ginsberg could always claim they were estranged.

“How do we go about this?” he wondered aloud. “Do you need to be married by a priest? Are you gonna get a dress?”

“No priest,” she said, “and I don’t know, about the dress. Should I?”

Ginsberg rubbed his eyes. He needed coffee, and breakfast, and a stiff drink - in that order. Too bad he didn’t have any booze in the house. Not even beer. From the window he heard a sound like a plucked bowstring; Jimmy was eating the screen again. A fly that had gotten in through one of the holes crawled along the seam where two walls met. He didn’t have the energy to chase either of them away.

“We have to talk in person,” he said. “I can’t deal with marriage proposals over the phone, even fake ones.”

He showed up at her place with his hair sticking up all over because he’d gotten dressed and brushed his teeth but didn’t bother to do anything else. She giggled at him and reached out a hand to touch the edges of his hair.

“You look like a cockatiel,” she said.

“Explain to me again why we have to tie the knot?” he asked.

She dropped her hand and nodded, schooling her face into a serious expression. “Not the time for messing around. You want a drink?”

He had all morning, but now that she offered he found his stomach was too sour. So he declined and she got him a glass of water instead.

They sat on her couch at opposite ends. Megan looked nervous. She kept moving things around on the coffee table - stacking magazines, changing the position of the ashtray, laying down a coaster when he already had one. It was a relief, somehow, to know that he wasn’t the only one stewing in his own anxiety.

He caught at her hand when she leaned in to shift the water glass two inches over. He didn’t usually do stuff like that except in emergency situations - but she kept moving, it was making him twitchy -

“What?” she asked. Her eyes were real big, and he realized he was sitting there holding her hand like an idiot. For no reason at all.

“Nothing,” he said. He turned her loose immediately. “We can be adults about this, right?”

“Ha,” she said. “Are we ever?”

“Sometimes.”

“You mind if I smoke?” she asked. Which meant she was feeling really screwed up; usually she’d light up right next to him without checking in at all.

Smoking calmed her down. After a couple minutes she had relaxed enough to fold herself into the corner of the couch instead of perching on the edge of it like she was considering taking flight.

“What are your biggest questions?” she asked.

“Why get married in the first place. Won’t it look suspicious as hell?”

“It could,” she said with a nod. “The timing isn’t the best. And I’m sure we’ll be interviewed at the very least. But I’ve been checking into it and it’s much, much harder to disrupt someone’s immigration status if they’re married to an American citizen. As long as he’s using his real name, that is.”

“We’ll be interviewed,” said Ginsberg. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, growing more embarrassed the longer he thought about it. “Megan… what if they ask - you know.”

“No, I don’t. Ask what?”

“About sex stuff?”

“So?” When he met her eye, bewildered, she laughed. “They won’t want _details_. Just general information: how frequent, when did our sexual relationship start. Easy-peasy.”

“That sounds detailed to me.” Ginsberg wouldn’t let himself dwell on those details, nope, not one bit. Not what her skin would look like against the sheets, or in candlelight -

He was such a pig.

“We’ll work it out. We should learn as much about each other as we can, anyway. Think of it like taking an exam: you have to study first.”

“I never did test well,” he said. “I don’t want to screw this up for you.”

“Michael,” she said with a terrible gentleness, “you know that you don’t have to -”

“I’m doing it. I’m not trying to back out.”

“There _will_ be time to prepare,” she said. “The government is not known for speedy processes.”

“Question two,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Do I get you a ring?”

“Oh, god no. I have so much jewelry already. I’ll pick something from there.”

Strange how disappointed he was at hearing that. He had never imagined shopping for a wedding ring, but he wasn't likely to ever get another chance to, either. Like he lost out before he’d known what he wanted in the first place.

She wasn’t really a diamond kind of girl, he thought. She liked costume jewelry, flash and fun. He’d have gotten her something else.

Megan stubbed out her cigarette, half-finished, and place it on the rim of the ashtray. “And I’m paying for everything. That’s a rule. I don’t want this to cost you one single thing.”

“Can I make rules?” he asked.

“ _Bien sûr_!”

He assumed that meant yes. “No trying to pay me back.”

Her face turned stern, or as much as it ever did. “Michael.”

“I’m serious as a heart attack,” he said. “No giving me money, no gifts, no favors from your Hollywood friends.”

She frowned, her eyebrows dipping down in concern. “But why? You’re getting nothing.”

He was getting to keep her here; he was being selfish and she didn’t know it. If she thought she owed him anything it would put a weight on their friendship. A weight that would strain, warp and tear. He had to keep the balance even.

“I’m getting something,” he said. “Trust me. Scouts honor.”

“You really _are_ selfless, aren’t you?”

She was so warm and admiring. He flinched internally, because he wasn’t - he wasn’t at _all_. “I’m not. I’m only a person, Megan.”

“Everyone is,” she said. “What next? You want to plan the wedding itself?”

“Courthouse?” That was the quickest way, if not the most romantic. Not that romance mattered.

“Good enough for me,” she said, and quirked her eyebrows at him. “How traditional are you on the subject of wedding dresses?”

 

They got married in Beverly Hills on a Tuesday, after work. She didn’t wear a wedding dress.

It was a green that brought out the springtime tinge in her eyes, made of ruffled fabric that left her shoulders and knees bare to the sunlight. She had pinned a cluster of white orchids behind one ear.

He got a new jacket for the occasion, but wished he had done more. He could have rented a tux, or at least shined his shoes. They weren’t going to match in the pictures.

“Ready?” she asked, and took his arm when he nodded tightly. He was having a hard time speaking; his throat was dry and tight.

“Should I have gotten you a bouquet?” he asked as they took their place in line. “Is that something the groom does?”

“No,” she said. “Who would I throw it to, anyway?” She unclasped her purse and took out the marriage license and a small box. “That’s the ring.”

The ring was set with a large square ruby and a border of tiny pearls. There were chips of something dark and shiny in there too, that reflected in the light when she rotated it. “Looks old,” he said. “And also expensive.”

“It belonged to my great- grandmother,” she said. “I always did want an excuse to wear it more.”

And then they were up; a bailiff was coming forward to bring them to the county clerk.

Ginsberg needed a minute - he needed time - but Megan was tugging him along. He followed her mutely, crackling with nerves. He was full of static; if someone touched him the right way he would kick up sparks. Could she feel it? How could she _not_?

The man coughed and buttoned his jacket. He held a book in front of him. The words of the ceremony rolled over Ginsberg and he mostly didn’t hear them - but by some miracle he didn’t miss any of his cues, either. He said yes, he said I do -

He blinked, and it was over. They were married.

“Congratulations,” said the clerk, wearing the broad smile of someone who really enjoyed his job. “You may now kiss the bride.”

The bride looked as blank as he felt. In the rush to get to the finish line they had both forgotten kissing sealed the deal.

Megan made the first move. Just as well, since his feet might as well have been nailed to the ground. She leaned down to compensate for her heels, cupped his jaw in her hands and pressed their mouths together, featherlight.

He thought that would be all and concentrated on staying very still. But she settled against him, her spine unwinding under his hands (when had he moved them, when had he put them on her back). Her mouth parted and he could feel the heat of her breath, the tip of her tongue on his bottom lip. When she licked him he jumped.

She pulled back with her eyes twinkling.

“You little shit,” he whispered, and she grinned openly.

Yeah. They were going to be okay.

 

Someone took a couple of polaroids of them on the courthouse steps after they signed the marriage certificate and gave them one each. Ginsberg didn’t look at his until he got home, once they’d gone their separate ways. He had been too afraid of the truth showing in his reaction.

It was only a picture. He had his eyes closed. Her gaze was unfocused, blurry; her expression indeterminate.

 

Ginsberg found a vase in the bottom drawer of Lou’s old filing cabinet. Who knew why it was there; Lou neither gave nor received flowers. He was glad it was, though - otherwise Meredith’s bouquet would have ended up in a drinking glass.

He left them on the corner of her desk. They were irises, big purple and white ones that he’d gotten at a flower stand down the street. She deserved a little pick me-up; they were always struggling and she worked really hard. Besides, he’d been snippy with her lately. He didn’t want to be the guy who yelled at his secretary. He had worked for enough of them himself.

She saw the blooms as soon as she came in and rushed into his office still in her sunglasses. “Michael,” she said, breathlessly. “I got _flowers_. Did you see? They’re beautiful.”

Ginsberg had been typing and had ink on his thumb from changing the ribbon. “I did,” he said, digging through his desk for a tissue or handkerchief. “So you like them?”

“Of course,” she said, and looked over her shoulder to admire her gift. “But who are they from? Did anyone say?”

He looked up, one hand still in the drawer. “Oh,” he said. “They’re from me. I assumed you’d know.”

Her head snapped back towards him. “What?”

“That’s why I didn’t leave a card,” he said.

She took her sunglasses off and directed a stare of such solemnity at him that he immediately froze in place. It was bizarre. Like being attacked by a bunny rabbit, or a freshly hatched chick.

It was even scarier when she closed the door.

There was a loveseat in the back corner of the room. He’d napped on it a couple times, when he had been at the office working late and got too tired to think. Meredith sat down and patted the seat beside her. “We need to talk,” she said.

He considered making a break for it. He could move pretty fast when he needed to.

“Michael,” she said. “Come here.”

“About what,” he asked, voice breaking as he sat next to her - why weren’t these stupid chairs bigger, who invented them -

She put a hand on his and squeezed. “I’m very flattered. But I don’t return your feelings.”

“My… feelings?”

“I don’t feel that way about you. Don’t be offended, but you aren’t my type.”

“No,” he said. “No, no - Meredith, you don’t understand -”

She shook her head, sadly. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. I know exactly how you feel right now.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh, believe me. I’ve been there. I know the heartbreak. When Don and I -”

“ _Don_?”

“Please don’t be jealous. It’s all in the past.”

“ _Meredith_ ,” he said, desperately. “Meredith, I got married. I got married yesterday, okay? I wasn’t trying to ask you out. I gave you flowers to say thanks for being a good secretary. I swear to god I had no other motive.”

“You got _married_?” she gasped, literally clutching her pearls. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“I couldn’t get a word in edgewise -”

“I am so relieved,” she said. “I really don’t find you attractive at all.”

“That’s - that is fine. Absolutely fine.”

Then she hit him. Balled up her little fist and slugged him in the shoulder, hard. “Why didn’t you tell me! I would have liked to go, did that ever occur to you? I bet you went down to some ugly old courthouse. Did Megan even wear a wedding dress?”

He winced and rubbed at the sore spot. “It was all very sudden. We - wait a minute. How the hell did you know it was Megan?”

She rolled her eyes. “Who else would you have married? Don’t be silly, Michael.”

“If you say so.” Maybe he could have had a whirlwind romance. She didn’t know.

Meredith got up and smoothed out her skirt. “I’ll be taking a long lunch today,” she announced. “So I can buy a certain someone a wedding present. And I hate being late with gifts!”

“We don’t need a gift.”

“When people get married, they should get a gift. It’s a rule.”

He didn’t argue with her in case she decided to hit him again. After she got back from lunch he slid a glance at the bags she had tucked under her desk but refused to ask. He would be confronted with the contents soon enough.

Ginsberg worked through the next couple hours without noticing what anyone else was doing. He fell into it, the way he often did, the distractions of the world dropping away. This was what the work could do for him when it was good; the reason he kept coming back to an industry he didn’t like much. What it gave him was a kind of peace - where being inside his head was a boon rather than a torment. The ability to look at a problem laid out before him and say, with total confidence: yes, I can solve this.

He got up and stretched. The view outside the window was a good one, high enough up that it was all blue skies and palm trees and not the dumpsters and parked cars below. Meredith was chatting to someone on the phone outside. It was a cheerful day and he was in a cheerful mood. He enjoyed it for about five minutes before disaster struck.

“So I heard the news,” Meredith said, “congratulations on your new daughter-in-law!”

Ginsberg went cold from head to toe.

“Meredith,” he called out. “Is that my father you’re talking to?”

“Yup!” she said. “Want me to put him through?”

“Please,” he said, faintly. When the phone rang he looked at it like it was a stick of dynamite.

He picked up and slowly lifted the receiver to his ear. “...hello?”

He expected an explosion. Instead he got a terrifying potent silence, and then: “You got _married_?”

“Pop, wait. Let me explain -”

“ _You got married_.”

“It all happened very quickly,” said Ginsberg. “It was kind of - we just decided -”

“You got married and you don’t invite your father. You don’t even tell me.”

“It wasn’t a real wedding. There were no guests, no big party. We eloped.”

“Eloped with _who_? I can’t believe I don’t know her name. I don’t know who my only son married. This is insane.”

Ginsberg gritted his teeth. He exhaled through his nose and tried to remain calm. “My wife is named Megan. Megan Calvet.”

“Megan,” said Morris, dubiously.

“Yes. Megan.”

“The hippie girl.”

“She’s not a hippie.”

“The one who used to be married to your boss and hit a goldmine when she left him.”

Ginsberg dragged his hand through his hair in frustration. He never should have told Morris anything about her. “You mean she struck oil. Not hit a goldmine.”

“The one you definitely were not dating.”

“We weren’t. And then, you know, we were. Shit happens, that’s life.”

There was another pointed silence on his father’s end. “Shit happens. This is how you’re describing your marriage.”

“No,” said Ginsberg. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I want to meet her.”

“What? You want us to go to New York?”

Morris ignored him. He was on a tear, and though he didn’t do it often there was no stopping him when he did. “I want to meet her. I want to meet this girl you just had to marry all of a sudden. I’m coming out there.”

“Absolutely not,” said Ginsberg. “No. Do you hear me? No.”

“And why not?” Morris asked. “What good reason is there for me to not meet my daughter-in-law? My family?”

“You got no money,” said Ginsberg. “How are you gonna get a hotel, huh?”

“Maybe your rich new wife can pay for it,” snapped Morris, and hung up the phone.

Meredith came in to find him face first down on the desk. She shut the door for the second time that day, and put her hand on his shoulder. He didn’t move.

“Did I get you into trouble?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, and sat up. “But it wasn’t your fault. I never told you we were trying to keep quiet.”

“Um,” she said. “I might’ve told some other people? Some of the girls back at the main branch - I thought they would want to send you some kind of congratulations. Cigars, maybe?”

“That’s for when someone has a baby,” he said. “But tell you what: if they do show up, you can have them.”

“I am _so_ sorry,” she said, and she did look very upset. “I’ve been so dumb lately!”

He ushered her out, carefully. “You’ve been fine. But I need some time alone, so why don’t you take off for the rest of the day?”

The rest of the day turned out to be twenty minutes later. He thought about calling Megan and warning her of the incoming storm. He thought about calling Stan and asking for advice. But he didn’t do either. He stared at the half-finished work in the typewriter and tried to remember why it had seemed so important, so vital. It was bullshit. He was building bullshit.

His concentration was broken. He gave and closed the place down, figuring as head of the shop he could make those decisions now. There was no one else around to care if they were right or not.

 

The phone call from Stan came as he was sitting down to dinner. He had been expecting it.

What he hadn’t been expecting was the understanding. He thought Stan would laugh at him or get annoyed, but he didn’t. His voice was rich with sympathy.

“So,” Stan said, in a light and casual way. “I hear you got hitched.”

“Yeah,” said Ginsberg. “Don’t remind me.”

“I notice I can still call you at your place,” said Stan. “How’d that happen?”

And Ginsberg crumbled; he fell apart like salt in rain and spilled the whole story. He told Stan everything, all of Megan’s problems, all of his worries about them. He didn’t know how badly he’d wanted to tell someone until after he had finished. Secret keeping was so fucking hard. It was a vice on the sides of his head, the feeling that he was constantly telling a lie.

“That’s rough,” said Stan. “I can see why you’d want to help her. But -”

“But what?” Ginsberg asked when Stan stopped speaking.

“Did you ever think about what it would do to you?”

“You mean talking to immigration?” Ginsberg asked. “Sure I did. I’m already terrified.”

“I’m not talking about immigration,” said Stan. “I’m talking about _you_ , personally.”

Ginsberg tried to come up with some excuse, but there was nothing. He couldn’t offer a misdirection; Stan knew how he felt about Megan. “I don’t expect anything from her,” he said. “I swear I don’t.”

“I believe you,” said Stan. “But your feelings don’t go away because you ignore them. Take it from someone who knows.”

Easy for Stan to say. Ginsberg and Megan were not Stan and Peggy. He would not be welcomed with open arms if he revealed himself to her. The best he could hope for was a dark place to lick his wounds afterwards. Yeah, Megan Calvet was going to return his affections. Jesus Christ.

But Stan was trying to help, he really was. Ginsberg pushed away any resentment he felt. It wasn’t fair but so were a lot of things. He would get over it.

“I don’t want to have a conversation about this,” he said. “Not right now.”

“Okay,” said Stan. “Then we won’t. You see the Dodgers game last night?”

Ginsberg smiled. “No,” he said, and they talked about less combustible subjects while he finished his canned spaghetti and toast.

“Take care of yourself,” Stan said before he hung up. Ginsberg tried to go to bed early, but didn’t fall asleep. He thought about what he would say to the immigration officials when they inevitably came knocking. He thought about saying his vows with Megan, palms sweating. He thought about his father.

Eventually he got up and sat watching television until three in the morning. Advertising flicked across the screen - for dish soap, for soda, for cologne. None of it was his.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the gap between updates! Lost inspiration on this one for a while; hopefully things will move faster now.

 

 

 

“I’m really sorry about this,” Michael said for the fourth time. Maybe fifth.

“It’s fine,” she reassured him, in the same patient voice she had used before. Which wasn’t sinking in. “It’s such a minor inconvenience that it barely counts as one. Look at everything you’ve done for me already. And you were going to have to bring some of your things over either way.”

Megan was sitting on the edge of her bathtub, watching Michael unpack his toiletries. He had arrived that morning with a couple of suitcases - more than he would take travelling, surely, but he wasn’t going on a trip. They were trying to make it look as if they lived together and had been for awhile. It was important to be as natural and comfortable in a shared space as possible. He couldn’t put his toothbrush next to hers and call it a day.

“He was never supposed to find out,” said Michael. “From all the way in New York he gets in my business.” He leaned back against the sink; it was fifties shell-pink, as all the fixtures were. Her building had been built in the early part of that decade, albeit in a design intended to attract bohemians rather than growing families. The bathroom was the only room that looked truly suburban.

“Roger called me last week to try and get me to referee some fight he and my mother were having,” Megan said. “And they’re in _Paris_. I’m not sure parents ever figure out how to leave their kids alone.” Émile she heard from much less, but if she had to make a guess she would have put her money on him being holed up with a student. Which was no more and no less than his usual reaction to the sting of losing something he had assumed he deserved; tenure at McGill, a book deal, his wife.

Poor girl was probably sick to death of hearing about Descartes, whoever she was.

“What was the fight about?”

“Who cares,” she said. “I told him to call one of my sisters if he wanted relationship advice. God knows they’re full of it.”

“I wish I had a brother to pass Morris off to,” said Michael. “Dealing with him is a two-man job.”

“I’ll help,” she said. “If I can handle immigration I can handle your Dad.” It remained to be seen if she _could_ handle immigration, but she didn’t want to think about that.

He looked dubiously at her. “You’ve never met him.”

“I’m good with parents,” Megan said, getting up to inspect the bottles lined up around the sink. She picked them up and read labels and unscrewed lids so she could smell the contents. Michael left her to it, looking amused.

He hesitated when he got into the bedroom. The suitcase that held his clothes was open on the bed, but he acted like he didn’t know where to put anything. Well, maybe he wanted permission. She slid her dresses and shirts down to one side of the closet to make room and stretched a hand back so that he could give her something.

The item he gave her was his old plaid blazer, the one in faded pale blue and red. It was hideous and what he had been wearing the very first time she met him. Back when he came to work in jeans every day because he didn’t own anything else. He had been so excited it was infectious, shaking the hand of everyone in the room - he shook hers twice; she didn’t draw attention to it until he caught on halfway through. “Oh, shit,” he had said. “I got you already.” Jesus, she’d laughed.

“I can’t believe you still have this old rag,” she said, pinching a loose thread between her fingernails and pulling it free. “I bet you got this for your bar mitzvah, didn’t you?”

He gave her a lopsided smile and kept digging through the suitcase. “No. It’s just a little… vintage.”

“Uh huh.” She hung the blazer next to the dress she wore for their wedding and hadn’t put on since. It felt like it was only for special occassions now, though that was a silly idea.

All his clothes were secondhand. Michael didn’t throw things out, he repaired them. She wondered if he sent money home to his father, too. She would not have been surprised. He had a deep-running responsible streak in him.

“Does Morris need money for a plane ticket?”

“Morris is taking a greyhound,” said Michael from the floor. He was pushing a pair of shoes under the bed.

“Oh, those can go on the rack,” she said. “Out by the front door.” She had made room earlier by dropping off some old shoes and coats at goodwill.

He paused; all she could see of him was the top of his head sticking up above the bed. “I forgot you have more room here. Back in Brooklyn - nevermind.”

She had never seen the apartment where he and his father lived, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that it would have been very small. She peered over the edge of the bed at him. “Yes?”

“You develop habits,” he said, shamefaced.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “I only meant we should make your stuff as visible as possible.”

He relaxed visibly. “Good point.”

“Did you bring any pictures?”

“Other suitcase.”

They finished the clothes first; she had cleared out a couple drawers in her dresser for him but he only turned out to need one of them. Privately she thought that while they were staying with each other she might convince him to start on a newer, more modern wardrobe. It could help him at work.

He had three pictures in the other case; an old high school group photo that was so grainy as to make him unrecognizable, a picture of him in front of the Empire State building at about twelve, all elbows and round eyes, and a very cute one of him asleep next to Morris when they were taking the ship over from Europe. Morris was reading a newspaper and Michael was wrapped in a coat.

“Nothing more recent?” she asked, and he shook his head. Well, that was fine. They needed some pictures of them together anyway.

Aside from that: books. He had lots of books. Dog-eared paperbacks, thrifted hardcovers with the price tag still on them - even a Victorian era Shakespeare textbook. Luckily she had a bookshelf that was, if she insisted on being honest, mostly populated by magazines.

Megan fell back onto her bed after they were done. He sat next to her, upright and leaning against the headboard. “That wasn’t so painful, was it?”

“No,” he said. “As long as I’m not in your way.”

“You aren’t,” she said. “I know you’re mad at your father right now, and I get it, but we can use his visit as practice for all our interviews later. Think of it as a dry run.”

“What about before he gets here?” Michael asked. There was no point in him returning to his apartment after practically moving in.

One of Megan’s legs dangled off the bed. She bounced it up and down, shaking the mattress, and scrunched up her toes. “Slumber party,” she decided, and grinned at him.

 

 

“I thought you were joking,” he said.

Megan grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl in his lap. “I wasn’t. Didn’t you ever do this as a kid?”

“Not really,” Michael said. “I stayed with a neighbour a couple times overnight, but that was when I was small and Pop had to work the late shift.”

 _The Thin Man_ was on television and there was an actual breeze blowing through the open balcony doors, enough that she could throw an afghan over them and still be comfortable. Michael slept in a t-shirt and boxers, apparently, instead of pyjamas. But she knew he hated being overheated. His legs were skinny and adorable.

It had been nice, sharing the quiet routine of getting ready for bed. She hadn’t done that with anyone for a long time.

“I love William Powell,” she said. “I had such a crush on him growing up. Movies like this are why I wanted to be an actress. I thought there would be a lot more lounging around in silk gowns.”

“Powell?” Michael asked. “Isn’t he kinda funny looking?”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Megan around a mouthful of popcorn. “He’s very charming.”

“They seem really happy,” he said, watching Nick and Nora banter their way across the screen. “You think people get to have marriages like that, in real life?”

Megan looked at the perfect waves of Myrna Loy’s hair. Nick was embracing another woman, but it was only to comfort her; Nora didn’t even have to wonder about the truth. There was no question of his faithfulness. They understood each other instantly. “I don’t know,” she said.

“I didn’t mean - Megan, I wasn’t talking about -”

“My marriage was shit,” she said. “I know it was. I just don’t think that -” She stopped, humiliation burning through her fast and mean. But he was waiting, and she wanted to be honest with him. “I don’t think that means they all are. Even with my parents and - everything. Am I being naive?”

“How could I tell?” Michael said. “I’m the worst person to be offering advice.”

She knew that she had put up with too much from Don, and she knew that she would never do that again. Those were her sureties. So much else about their relationship had been a series not of events, but of feverish impressions. Instability wasn’t the word. Was Don really sleeping with Sylvia Rosen, or had Megan been paranoid? He gave her permission to do her job and then took it away, but why? What changed? Was it something she said? Or did? And then he had almost taken California from her, too.

Had that morning, that awful morning where he chased her through the apartment, where he knocked her down -

Did it happen? The whole terrible business was so unreal. It wasn’t how they acted, how good people living in upscale Manhattan apartments acted. Nick never put his hands on Nora.

But there had been bruises on her knees the next day.

She couldn’t imagine Michael doing anything like that, just as she couldn’t imagine sitting on the couch with Don, eating popcorn and debating William Powell’s attractiveness.

“You could have a relationship like them,” Megan said, indicating the movie. “I’m sure you could.”

“But you can’t?” he asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“I haven’t,” she said. “What do you think that means?”

And there it was, the sick center of her worries. Do you think there’s something wrong with me. She was surprised she was able to say it out loud.

“It means you were unlucky,” he said.

All of a sudden she felt like crying. It was almost funny, the way she reacted when he said such nice things to her. Like she was Anne of Green Gables, always getting teary-eyed over her own unexpected happiness. And Michael never asked for anything in return. She didn’t understand it.

She gave him a watery smile. When she looked back at the screen, blinking rapidly, he slipped his hand into hers. And not even with an active crisis for an excuse. Maybe it was the dark that gave him the courage to do so, or the sound of the wind moving through the chaparral outside. Such a calm night.

Megan squeezed his hand gratefully. His fingers were a little greasy from the popcorn, but so were hers.

 

 

“You wrote a list?” Michael asked. He was parked in the corner of the sofa with his arms draped over a pillow that was sitting on his lap. Kind of hugging it. He looked terrified.

“I thought we should get a head start,” she said. “We need to familiarize ourselves with each other’s backgrounds. They’re going to ask us questions, Michael.”

“You know my background,” he said. “I was at an orphanage in Stockholm and then after I got adopted we moved to New York.”

“More specific than that,” she said. “They won’t be satisfied with a biographical sketch. Megan Calvet was born in Montréal in the spring… no, not good enough.”

“How do you know what they’ll ask us?”

Megan sighed. She set two tall glasses of ice water on the coffee table and flipped a page in her notebook. “I _don’t_. I’m guessing.”

“Oh,” he said, and reached for a glass. “Best you can do under the circumstances, I guess.”

“I tried to get my lawyer to put me in touch with someone who had been through all this before, but people are not real into talking about it.” She sat down and read the first line on the page. “Can I start?”

“Yes. Wait. Do I get to ask questions?”

“I figure we can use the same ones. You answer and then I will.”

He seemed more comfortable with that. “Okay. As long as I’m not being interrogated, here.”

“What’s your middle name?”

“Don’t have one. You?”

“Édith,” she said. “Want to know my first name, too?”

“Uh,” he said, staring at her. “Kinda thought I already did?”

“Nope,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I changed it. I’ve been going by Megan since I was about ten years old. My parents named me Marguerite. Marguerite Édith Calvet.”

“Why’d you change it?” he asked. “That sounds nice.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You don’t think it’s old-fashioned? It was to me, such a grand-mère name. Also the anglophone kids at school used to call me Maggie. Which I hated.”

“Can’t see you being a Maggie.”

“Exactly.”

“It’s weird, isn’t it,” he said, “the way other people give us names and we don’t have a choice but to go along. I used to be called Max, apparently. For my first couple of years.”

“ _Really_?” Megan asked. “Did Morris change it?”

“No, no,” he said. “This was before, I hadn’t met him yet. I switched orphanages a couple times and along the way someone decided they didn’t like Max, so then I was Michael. Except it was spelled different: M-I-K-A-E-L. I was a baby still. I don’t remember the process.”

“And when you came to America -”

“The spelling changed again, yeah. That wasn’t Morris either. The school thought it would be easier, if I recall correctly.”

“That’s pretty high-handed of them,” Megan said. “Were you ever confused?”

“I was too young to spell,” he said. “I had no opinion at the time. But I have to wonder -”

He paused and looked off somewhere above her head. It was the same expression he got when he was working, actually. Like he was far away, or so deep inside his head that he couldn’t see what was in front of him. She could have pinched him and he wouldn’t have noticed.

“I have to wonder if they meant to name me Max,” he said. “My real parents. Probably not. But I’m never gonna know.”

“Would you want to be called Max now?” She’d changed her name, after all, and dug her heels in until everyone else went along with it. He had every right to do the same.

“No,” he said. “It’s not my name anymore.”

“I suppose not,” Megan said. She tapped her pen against the page. The next question on the page - what is your favorite color - seemed so stupid.

“What,” he said. “What? You got a look on your face.”

“I - I have not got a _look_ ,” she stuttered. Fuck, he always noticed what she was thinking way too quick. She attempted to project a kind of calming blankness. “I was deciding which question to use.”

“Let me do one,” he said. “What was the first play you were ever in?”

Megan laughed and threw the notebook down. “Oh god,” she said. “You would ask that. Okay; it was Romeo and Juliet, my last year of high school. Guess who I played.”

“Not Juliet?”

“Not Juliet,” she said. Juliet had been played by Adeline Benoit, perfectly dainty at five foot two and Sister Theresa’s favorite. Megan would have towered over Romeo, who was her friend Madonna in a pageboy wig and tights. “I played the nurse, ridiculous wimple and all. But since Juliet’s bower collapsed on the lovers during their end scene, maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing.” The bower was made of painted papier-mâché and baby-blue gauze, so no one had been hurt, but the audience hadn’t known how to take the collapse. Was it deliberate? Had Shakespeare taken a turn for avant-garde theater? There had been a few shocked laughs, and a minute latter a smattering of confused applause.

“Isn’t that everyone’s high school drama experience?” Michael asked. “Bad casting and sets that fall apart.”

“Wait, were you interested in theater? You never told me!”

“Not quite,’ Michael said, sheepishly. “I was an understudy because I was one of the only kids that could memorize the lines. All I wanted to do was paint scenery and have something to do after school.”

“Ever go on for anyone?”

“ _No_ ,” he said. “Can you imagine? I’d have a fucking heart attack. I maybe could still sing _Luck Be A Lady_ , but only if my life depends on it.”

Megan picked up her list of questions. She wanted a funny one, something shocking that would never come up in the interview. That would make the interview - no, interviews, there was going to be more than one - seem easier than Michael expected.

“When did you lose your virginity?” she asked.

She got a reaction, alright. He choked on a mouthful of water.

“Are they going to _ask_ us that?” he wheezed, wiping his eyes with the side of his hand and trying to ease off coughing. “Jesus Christ, why.”

Megan handed him a napkin, bewildered. “I have no way of knowing. I just thought that it was something we’d know about each other if we were a couple. Is it such a big deal? I was sixteen, there you go.”

It had been a typically pathetic experience that was more reminiscent of a booster shot than anything else. “That’s all?” Megan had asked afterwards, disappointed. That wasn’t all, as it turned out, but she had at least a year and a half to go before making that discovery. And a different boyfriend.

“You were - this isn’t something I needed to know.”

“Oh, for - I didn’t tell you _how_ ,” Megan said. “Couples talk about sex all the time, you’re going to have to get used to it. I’m asking for a ballpark figure, not a play-by-play.”

Michael puffed out his cheeks. He had gone very pink. “When did I - oh, wow. Uh. Thing is -”

“There’s no reason to be embarrassed,” Megan said, aware she sounded as prim as a grade school nurse.

“ - I haven’t. Done that. Yet.”

She stared at him until her ears caught up with her brain. “Oh,” she said, totally stupid. “So you’ve - I didn’t know. I mean obviously I didn’t - I didn’t guess. I mean?” Of course she was aware that he had issues with romance, but for them to have gone on this long -

“Yeah,” he said, grimly.

“Why not?” she asked.

He gave her some serious stinkeye. “Because I’m bad with people.”

“You’re misunderstanding,” she said. “I wasn’t blaming you. I was asking why no one ever - you know -” She made a gesture which was intended to encompass him and also communicate how inexplicable she found the entire situation. It didn’t clear anything up.

“I have not one goddamned clue what you’re trying to say right now.”

“Why no one ever _did_ you,” she said.

Michael responded like she had stuck him with a pin, or jumped up on the coffee table and started taking her clothes off. “Are you out of your _mind_.”

“I’m giving you a compliment!” she said. “See, because -”

He threw up his hands beseechingly and interrupted. “Megan. Megan, stop. Stop it right now. Question and answer period is over. I’m dying over here, give me a break.”

She deflated. He did look upset, red in the face and desperate. She hadn’t meant to embarrass him, or not any more than good-natured teasing couldn’t fix. “If you want.”

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose. “I do want. I want very badly.”

“Okay,” she said. “We could see what’s on the TV. Or -”

“I’m just gonna,” he shook himself all over and got to his feet. On second thought he took his work jacket off and left it on the couch. The flush was receding but he was still shot through with fitful energy. “I need a minute.”

What he needed, evidently, was twenty of them. That’s how long he spent hiding from her in the bathroom.

 

 

Megan’s problem was that once she started thinking about it she couldn’t stop. She lay under a sheet in her bed, listening to the electric fan on the floor push the air around and staring up at the ceiling. She had all her windows open and her bedroom door, too, so that if she needed to use the washroom she could do it without disturbing Michael.

She tried to tell if he was asleep out there. But the whine and click of the fan drowned out any sound of breathing or restless movement. Was he awake as well, caught by the heat or the images in his own brain?

Megan was pretty casual about sex. Good at answering to the needs of her body in spite of years of parochial school attempting to drum her urges out of her. Michael was a different kind, she knew. He had such a hard time relaxing and he rarely caught on when somebody liked him - really, genuinely liked him. Better at saying no than saying yes. No wonder he hadn’t felt comfortable enough with anyone to sleep with them.

It wasn’t bad that he had waited, she thought. For wanting his first time to special. She should have told him so.

Had anyone ever offered?

Megan was curious. She’d never been anybody’s first. And it wasn’t like she hadn’t thought about it, about the potentiality of them together -

What? He was cute. Megan liked cute.

She rolled over onto her stomach and blew a breath out. All worked up and nowhere to - well.

It would be one thing if she were _alone_.

She directed a guilty glance into the living room, attempting to make out the shape of his body in the dark. Could he hear her?

The apartment was silent. Michael gave no indication of being awake. And she was aching between her legs. She would never sleep in this condition; if praying for it to go away didn’t work when she was a teenager it wasn’t going to work tonight.

Quietly, she thought. She could be quiet -

Megan slid her hand under the waistband of her panties and listened hard. Nothing. Satisfied, she kept going. Parted herself with her fingers and rubbed until she was slick and panting. Her hips hitched against the bed. It was perfunctory and kind of ugly, but getting the job done -

The balcony doors slid open.

She froze. No, she thought, not now -

But he didn’t come back in. Didn’t walk around the apartment, or turn on a light, or pass her room on the way to the bathroom. He must have gone outside to cool off.

“Fuck,” she hissed, and ground down onto her hand. “Fuck -”

She tugged her underwear down to get it out of the way. It tangled between her thighs, stretched as she spread her legs. The pillowcase got wet under her open mouth. She tasted the fabric, smelled the sweat prickling under her arms and along her spine. It was too hot, and she pulled her nightgown off and threw it over the edge of the mattress, which she shouldn’t have, shouldn’t be naked only a few feet from where he was -

Pressed her fingers down on her clit again and again. Thought about Michael listening to her out on the balcony. Thought about him _watching_ -

She came with a noise that sounded like it had been stabbed out of her. Turned over again and kicked the sheet off, counting on the night for coverage. The humid air felt almost cold.

Megan could hear him, she realized, through the window. He was humming - or was that singing? Yes, it was, a show tune he claimed to have forgotten; singing _Luck Be A Lady_ to the flickering city lights below.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really surprised that this is the first thing I've written that broke 20K. Huh.

 

 

Ginsberg pulled up to the crowd on the sidewalk. Most of them were getting cabs, hugging hello or goodbye. He was kinda in the way. And Morris wasn’t there.

Someone honked their horn behind him. He cursed and drove up a few feet, craning his neck and looking for a familiar silhouette.

They had decided Megan should stay home. Or to be honest: _he_ had decided Megan should stay home. She had not agreed, and didn’t hesitate to let her opinion be known. But it was Ginsberg who knew Morris. He was going to get off that bus in one of his stubborn moods and he was going to have a whole bunch to say about it. He always did.

It’s practice, he told himself. Don’t get mad, act like a guy on his honeymoon. It’s practice.

Morris eventually appeared on the edge of the sidewalk. He was carrying his old blue suitcase and had one hand held up to his eyes to block out the sun. Had his sunglasses left at home, probably, and his eyesight wasn’t too great to begin with.

Ginsberg got out of the car. “Pop,” he yelled. “Over here!”

“That’s a fancy car,” Morris said as he approached. His tone couldn’t be called distasteful, but it wasn’t friendly either. “Is it hers?”

So that was how it was gonna be. Fine. Ginsberg spread his hands and shrugged. “Well, it’s not mine.”

“Why didn’t she come?”

“How many seats you see in this thing?” He tapped the side of the door, so much shiny green metal. “She told me to take her car. Thought we might have some fun driving the highway with the top down - was she wrong?”

“It’s pretty nice, I don’t know. Where do I put my suitcase? It have a trunk?”

“Yeah, of course,” said Ginsberg, and opened it for him. They got in and sat there awkwardly. Not how he had pictured their reunion.

“You’re looking well,” his father said.

Ginsberg touched the back of his head self-consciously. “Megan gave me a haircut,” he said, because she had. In the bathroom with scissors from the kitchen. And then he’d hunched over the sink while she brushed loose bits of hair off the back off his neck.

“Want me to wash it?” she’d asked. “So we can see how it’s going to shape up after it dries?”

He thought about her long fingers sliding through his hair, how nice that would feel. “No,” he said, “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” And it was, actually. She did a good job.

“She does a lot for you, huh?”

Ginsberg couldn’t tell if that was sarcasm or what. He directed a flat look at Morris. “I’m her husband. She likes me.”

Morris snorted. “I should hope so.” He pulled the brim of his hat down, fiddling with it, and seemed like he might be about to say something else. Whatever it was never came, nor did anything else of consequence. He took the cap off and fanned himself with it. “It’s hotter than hell out here.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Ginsberg said, though he hadn’t, and eased them into the city’s pea-soup traffic.

The wind helped offset the relentless sun once they hit the speed limit. Morris turned the radio on and Ginsberg made no argument - they had a forty minute drive ahead of them. Maybe his father was tired; maybe he didn’t want to talk or ask inconvenient questions. The drive from New York to LA was not a short one, even if you were a passenger.

Morris wasn’t long in bursting _that_ bubble. “So. What’s she like?”

“Megan?”

“Your wife.”

She has a name, Ginsberg thought. But he was trying to keep the peace.

“Megan is - I don’t know how to say it.” How could he describe her, in a few paltry words? Without reducing her? She’s very nice. No, that was awful - and he was a writer. He ought to be able to do better. “She’s bright. I don’t mean smart - though yes, she’s smart too, I just -” Ginsberg tightened his knuckles on the steering wheel. “She’s bright like colors are. Right? Like waking up in the morning with the sun coming in through the window and you _know_ it’s going to be a good day. That’s Megan.”

He chanced a look at Morris, sideways without completely taking his eyes off the road. The old man was pretty blank. Ginsberg couldn’t read his expression at all.

“Also she’s really funny,” he added.

“So why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did tell you about her,” Ginsberg said. “You knew who she was.”

“Didn’t know you were marrying her,” said Morris. “I didn’t even know you were _dating_.”

“These things don’t always turn out right for me,” he said. “Maybe I didn’t want to risk jinxing it.”

“Do you love her?”

Ginsberg choked out a panicked half-laugh. Jesus Christ, of course he would ask that. “I - what a question. Why else would I get married?” And he was edging far too close to the truth; to more than one truth. He could only hope Morris would listen to him for once.

“I dunno,” Morris said. “People do things for all sorts of crazy reasons. And you’re out here by yourself, all alone. This place was making you lonely. You think no marriage ever happened without love before?”

“No,” said Ginsberg. “I wasn’t saying it didn’t. But I wouldn’t - I couldn’t marry anyone I didn’t care for, Pop. Give me some credit.” And he couldn’t have. Not even for pretend, like they were doing.

“So,” said Morris, dogged and determined. “Do you love her?”

Swear to god, Ginsberg was going to pull over and leave him by the side of the road. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Yes,” he said. “I love her.”

“Okay,” said Morris. “That was all I wanted to know.”

Ginsberg exhaled in a rattle of breath. He felt funny, lightheaded. It was amazing what three simple words could do to him. He was glad that Megan hadn’t come along. It would have killed him to confess how he felt to her face. “You’re gonna love her too,” he said, like he could will it into being.

 

 

Megan met them at the door. The apartment was filled with the smell of food: bay leaves and wine and the fancy french beef he couldn’t pronounce correctly. He had told her she didn’t have to cook, they could take Morris out for dinner, but she was insistent. She spent all day in the kitchen. Even baked a cake, which was just weird.

She wore a yellow sundress and held her hands out to Morris as soon as he stepped inside. “I’m so pleased to finally meet you,” she said with a broad smile. “I hope your trip went well?”

He shook her hand, but briefly. “A bus is a bus,” he said. “They’re all the same.”

“Oh,” she said, with a glance at Ginsberg. “Did Michael tell you we could have gotten you a plane ticket? I wouldn’t mind -”

“The trip was fine,” Morris said. “Where do you want my suitcase?”

Megan faltered but rallied quickly. “I suppose in the living room, since you’ll be sleeping on the couch. Are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable in a hotel? I can cover the expense.”

Morris waved her off. “I don’t need anyone covering my expenses. Besides, I came to see Michael. Why go anywhere else?” He clapped a hand on Ginsberg’s stiff shoulder.

“Yeah,” said Ginsberg. “We’re gonna have a fun week.”

Morris shuffled out of his shoes and went to put his bag away. Megan stepped in to kiss Ginsberg on the cheek and also whisper in his ear. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Nothing,” Ginsberg reassured her. “He got out of bed on the wrong side. Don’t let him get to you.”

She clapped her hands together, a vision of cheer, and turned to beam at Morris. “Ready to eat? I made _boeuf à la bordelaise_.”

“Like a classy pot roast,” Ginsberg explained before Morris could ask.

They set the table while Megan dished up the food. She had a fresh vase of flowers on the table, creamy white lilies shaped like the top of a chalice. They weren’t from her garden so she must have gotten them special. She was putting in so much effort to make things nice and Morris acted like he didn’t even notice.

“Does anyone want a drink?” Megan asked from the kitchen. “Or will water do?”

“Water,” Ginsberg answered, because no one needed a loosened tongue tonight.

They sat down to the meal. Morris was quiet at first, but that was only because he was plotting. “So,” he asked, “how’d you to meet?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” Ginsberg asked. “I’m pretty sure I told you.”

Megan put her hand over his, next to his plate. “That’s fine, honey. I don’t mind.” She set her fork down and looked across the table at Morris. “Michael and I met at work. We were on the same copywriting team at Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce.”

“How’d you get into copywriting?” Morris asked. “I thought you were a - what was it? Model?”

Megan laughed. “Well, that’s flattering. But no, I was never a model. I was the receptionist, actually, before that. And then, um - Don’s secretary. For a little while.”

“Who’s Don?” asked Morris, even though he already knew. Ginsberg fumed but took no action. He tried counting to ten though that never worked. What else was left? Imagining soothing bucolic pastures, with cows and shit?

“Don,” said Megan. “My ex-husband, Don Draper. Don was Michael’s boss at the time. And mine obviously. I got into copywriting after we got married.”

Morris moved meat around his plate but didn’t take a bite. “You were married when you met Michael?”

She was starting to get flustered, her cheeks pinking-up slightly. “Oh,” she said, pushing her hands through her hair. “Not like - not like that. I mean I _was_ , but nothing happened. Don and I were already divorced -”

Under the table, where she couldn’t see, Ginsberg stepped on his father’s foot.

“I wasn’t suggesting anything,” said Morris. “Only wondering.”

“Okay,” she said, and poked at her food without energy or appetite. Clearly she needed help.

Ginsberg curled his fingers around her wrist affectionately. “Megan was a really good copywriter, Pop. You remember the Heinz baked beans commercial, the one travelling through time? That was hers.”

“I remember it. Clever idea ,” said Morris. “Did you like the copywriting?”

“It was interesting,” Megan said. “More fun than being a secretary. I have a theater background, so I liked the idea of telling stories. Even if it was for only sixty seconds at a time.”

Morris nodded. “So why quit?” he asked.

“I wasn’t comfortable there,” she said. “It was - awkward, I guess, working with my husband at the time. And I never had a feel for that work the way some people do. The way Michael does.” She smiled briefly at him and continued. “I missed acting, which was my real passion. I decided I should pursue it again. That’s the reason I moved away from New York.”

“ _Before_ you got divorced.”

“Yes. Before that.”

“Did this Don come with?”

“No,” said Megan. “Um, he had business in Manhattan. It made sense to live separately.”

“Hm. So you’re acting now. What in?”

Megan reached for her water and tossed back a mouthful. “Nothing?” she said, putting the glass back down and avoiding meeting anyone’s eyes.

“She just hasn’t had much luck,” Ginsberg said, quickly. “It’s a real hard industry to break into.”

“I can imagine,” said Morris. He directed his next question at Megan again. “But you still go to auditions and so on? Since it’s your passion and all.”

“Not lately,” Megan said. “I haven’t officially quit, but no one is exactly banging on my door to stop me either. I haven’t heard from my agent in - anyway.” She laughed weakly. “Who cares about all this shop talk. I’m living in the moment, right? Speaking of: what would you like to do while you’re in the city, Morris?”

“Nothing in particular,” Morris said. “What do you think you’ll do next? Career wise.”

“Next?” Megan asked. “I don’t know.” She tried to act perky, but Ginsberg felt like he was watching someone try to swim while tied to a rock. “I’m open for suggestions, if you’ve got any.”

A hush fell, thick as December snow. Megan went back to eating, mechanically, and after a moment so did Morris. The rest of the meal passed without comment or conversation. Ginsberg couldn’t taste a thing.

But they emptied their plates somehow. Megan was the last to put her fork and knife down. She didn’t have to say anything for Ginsberg to tell that she was wishing she had opened a bottle of wine after all.

“Does anyone want dessert?” she asked.

 

 

Ginsberg helped Megan clear the dishes off. She took her nice vase of flowers into the kitchen to get some fresh water for them. He caught her trailing her fingers over the petals, her mouth a thin sad line.

He chucked her under the chin. It was a stupid fucking gesture that he probably picked up from a movie, but it made her smile.

“I’m gonna go for a walk,” Morris announced from where he was seated on the couch. He had a newspaper folded up in one hand. “See you kids in a bit.”

“Don’t get lost,” Ginsberg said.

Megan waited until he was gone to speak. When she did it was downbeat and rueful. “I never was very good at auditions,” she said.

Ginsberg’s fingers flexed against the edge of the counter. Seeing red was a poetic exaggeration but he came close. That was it. That was fucking _it_.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said.

“Oh, Michael, _don’t_ ,” she said, pleading after him. But he was already halfway to the door.

“A minute,” he said, and pulled it shut as he stepped through. Morris was already anticipating his arrival, leaning back against Megan’s car with his arms crossed over his chest. The newspaper he had dropped on the hood. A warm, listless breeze blew it open to the sports pages.

“Took you long enough,” he said.

Ginsberg crossed the parking lot in seconds. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Me?” Morris asked, and had the nerve to look incredulous. “I’m looking out for _you_.”

“You’re -” Ginsberg clenched his teeth together. “Are you fucking kidding me? I moved a thousand miles away and you still don’t think I can make my own decisions?”

“How many jobs did she have?” Morris asked. “She must’ve done a turnaround every six months.”

“What does that have to do with anything? How many jobs have I had - how many times did I get fired, huh?”

“That’s not the same, Michael. You were trying. She has no idea what she wants to do with her life.”

“Neither does anybody else! She went out of her way to be welcoming and you treated her like shit. If I’d done that to anyone you brought home you woulda sent me to my room.”

“Did you even listen to our conversation?” Morris pointed at the building. “That woman changes her mind every five minutes. She’ll do it again and you’ll be out on your ass with a broken heart.”

“‘That woman’ is my wife, and if you don’t like it you can get on a bus and go back to New York.”

In the ringing silence that descended they started at each other. “I can’t believe you would say that to me,” Morris said.

Neither could Ginsberg, but he didn’t regret having done so. “You can’t encourage me to come out here and then act surprised when I grow up a little. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t defend the woman I married, Pop? Do you _want_ me to not care about her?”

Morris looked away. “Of course not. But you don’t always make friends easy, Michael. Much less girlfriends. And people don’t always have your best interests in mind.”

“Oh, for - you do understand that I’ve known her for years, right? We didn’t meet yesterday.”

“You got married yesterday,” Morris said. “Or it sure seems like it.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, okay? But you have got to recognize that this is _my_ life. I know what I’m doing.” Ginsberg took a deep breath. “I have good instincts about people most of the time. I don’t let assholes take advantage of me; I don’t need to be protected. And you have never given me credit for that. If we don’t work out - then we don’t. But it won’t be because I’m naive or she’s bad.”

“She’s looking through the window.”

Ginsberg glanced back over his shoulder just in time to see the curtains twitch. “It’s her house, she’s allowed to look out the window whenever she wants!”

“What are you going to tell her?”

Ginsberg started walking towards the apartment. He had said what he needed to. The rest was up to Morris. “I don’t know, what _am_ I going to tell her? Is it gonna be that you’re cutting your trip short?”

Megan was on the couch, watching television. She turned it off as soon as she saw him. “Is everything alright?”

“We’ll see,” he said, and that was when Morris came back in.

“Where do you keep your dish towels?” he asked. He’d left his newspaper outside.

“In the drawer next to the sink,” Megan said. “Why?”

“I figured I’ll do the dishes,” he said. “Since you made for us such a nice meal. No, don’t get up. Michael will help me.”

Thank god. “Sure thing, Pop,” Ginsberg said. He relaxed for the first time since he had started up the car to go to the bus depot. It had been fifteen long minutes before he could bring himself to pull out of the driveway. “You want to wash or dry?”

 

 

Ginsberg looked at himself in the mirror; at the toothbrush sticking out of his mouth and the patch of stubble he’d missed shaving that morning. At the red high on his cheekbones that lingered still from the heat of the day. Megan was already in bed, waiting. And he was dawdling.

She was sitting up, reading by lamplight when came out. The cover of the book was a black and white photo of a pretty woman with her hair all windblown. _The World Is Full of Married Men_ , the loopy text on the front said _._

Was he supposed to say something? Or just climb on in?

“That’s a weird title,” he said. “What’s it about?”

She tucked a bookmark between the pages and closed them. “Catharsis. Don’t you usually sleep in your shorts?”

He did, typically. But then he wasn’t usually lying next to her, and it had seemed inappropriate. So he was wearing pyjama pants. “I guess,” he said.

Megan put her book on the nightstand and shuffled over. “I’m used to being the only one in the bed, now. Do you prefer a side?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t care.” There was no putting it off any longer, so he walked over and got under the sheets. He was careful to stick to his side, though, right up against the edge.

“Michael.”

“Yeah?”

She smiled at him and nudged his knee with hers. “I am not going to spontaneously combust if you touch my leg. Move in a bit before you fall off.”

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry.” He did as she said, but his heart was pounding the whole time. Though luckily that kept blood from heading for warmer shores.

Megan seemed comfortable enough. She lay back against her pillow and looked up at him, worrying her lower lip. “So did I piss off your father or what?”

“You didn’t do anything,” he said. “Morris was looking for a reason to find fault with you. There was nothing you could have done to stop him.”

“But why?” she asked. “Because I’m Catholic?”

“Maybe,” Ginsberg said. “But I think more because you’re a reason for me to be staying out here. Los Angeles just became a whole lot more permanent.”

“I thought he wanted you to try LA out.”

“He did. But that doesn’t mean he wanted me to _stay_.”

“Parents are weird.”

“Extremely,” he agreed.

She rolled onto her side, facing him. Her hair fell across her eyes and hid her expression except for her grimacing mouth. “Ugh. I made myself sound like such a _bimbo_.”

“Not a bimbo,” he said. “Okay, maybe a little bit a bimbo.”

Megan pressed her nose against his shoulder and shook with suppressed amusement. “Why didn’t I make something up when he was asking me all those questions? You’d think I had never been an actress at all.”

“I don’t want you acting,” he said. “Be yourself. He’ll learn to deal.” He brushed a few locks of hair back. It was important he could see her. He didn’t know why. It just was.

“Okay,” she said, softly. And then she didn’t say anything else. She kept on looking at him, though, all the while smelling like soap from her shower and having the silkiest skin in the world. It was very distracting.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re so,” she said. “I don’t know. You.”

“Me,” he said. “That means something?”

“Yes,” she said. “It does.”

They both jumped when the bathroom door slammed shut just outside the bedroom. They hadn’t even seen Morris go past. Immediately afterwards it opened again, and he stuck his head out.

“Whoops,” he said. “That wake you up?”

“We’re fine,” Megan said. “Is the light bothering you, Morris?”

“No, no,” he said. “I’m an old man who falls asleep everywhere. Don’t change your routine on my account.”

Megan reached past Ginsberg and turned it off anyway. But when he thought she might move away, she didn’t. She stayed right there with him, nestled into his side.

 

 

They spent a considerable time the next morning trying to figure out what had happened to Ginsberg’s wristwatch. Turned out it had fallen under the bed. Megan was the one who found it, and when she was on her knees digging it out of the carpet Morris came into the room. He was already dressed.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked.

Megan handed Ginsberg the watch. “No. We’re running slightly late, that’s all. Do you want breakfast?”

“Not yet,” Morris said. “I thought we might go out.”

Megan looked over at Ginsberg in surprise. He continued knotting his tie, eyes on his father. “You and me?” she asked.

“Michael’ll be at work,” Morris said. “And I wanted to go see the, uh. What is it. Science Museum. If you don’t mind.”

“The - oh, The Museum of Natural History?” Megan asked. “I’d love to go. Good idea, right Michael?”

“Great idea,” said Ginsberg. Megan was practically radiant. One of the most unexpected and beautiful things about her was how little it took to make her happy. She had grown up with rich parents and gone to good schools. She received the divorce settlement of the century. All that could have spoiled her; it might have created a woman who was never pleased with anything. It hadn’t.

“I’ll get dressed,” she said, and they left the room so that she could.

Morris walked him to the door. “She’ll take a while,” Ginsberg said. “You should make yourself coffee if you want one.”

“I will,” he said. “Nice that she found your watch for you.”

“You know how I’m always losing stuff.” Ginsberg adjusted the strap. It was starting to tear through on one side. “Go easy on her, okay?”

“Look,” said Morris. “Last night -”

“You can apologize later,” Ginsberg said. “Right now I just wanna know that you’re going to treat her right.”

Morris didn’t get mad. He nodded, and regarded his son in a more serious way than perhaps he ever had. “I promise.”

They hugged before Ginsberg left. It was the first time since he had left New York. He sat in his parked car for some time afterwards and thought about everything that had changed. Megan was ready much quicker than he had anticipated; the convertible passed him once he got out on the road. She raised one hand in a wave as they sped by. Both she and Morris were laughing.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent a lot of time researching seventies era electronics for this chapter.

 

 

 

Megan got into the car and shut the door behind her. She let out a breath, slowly. On the passenger’s side Michael did the same thing. They looked at each other.

She gave him a tentative smile. “So how’d it go?”

The car was not an ideal location for having this discussion, but it was more private than the waiting room would have been. In spite of the people crossing the parking lot to go have their own interrogations with INS.

He was wearing a new suit that she bought him for the occasion, navy blue with a red striped tie, because it was far too dangerous to let him dress himself for such an important meeting. Shopping with him had been fun. Turned out he’d never been to a tailor. His face was flushed, which meant that he hadn’t been able to fight off his nerves as well as she’d hoped. But his voice was steady when he spoke.

“I dunno,” he said. “I guess okay? I had the facts down, the way we practiced. But he had some questions that I didn’t have an answer to so I had to make stuff up.”

“Like what?” she asked.

The flush deepened. “Like our - our sex life,” he stuttered.

“They didn’t ask me anything fun like that,” she said, smirking. Weren’t the questions supposed to be identical? Maybe the guy was too embarrassed to be so blunt with a woman. He had been in his sixties at least, a balding man named Samuel Loblaw who acted like he had never enjoyed a joke in his life. “What did you say?” She had tried to bring the subject up at home as a just-in-case but Michael ran from her every time. Eventually she gave up.

“I said I wasn’t gonna to discuss private matters with a stranger,” he said. “That you wouldn’t appreciate it if I did.”

She nudged him with her elbow and wiggled her eyebrows horribly. “You didn’t take the opportunity to brag yourself up?”

He gave her a withering look, or tried to. It made her want to pinch his cheeks. “I will get out of this car and walk home.”

“No you won’t,” she said. “Okay, what else?”

“Kids,” he said.

“If we wanted them?”

“Yeah, that.”

“Oh,” she said. The anxiety she’d felt when she stepped into that antiseptic office an hour ago came back in full force, her stomach tight and aching. She had been asked about children as well, and was startled into candor. So she said: no, she didn’t want any. She loved them but didn’t want them, which never seemed to make any sense to anyone but her. It hadn’t appealed to the interviewer, who had flicked a disapproving glance at her over his glasses. Men always thought -

“I told him we weren’t having kids,” Michael continued, oblivious. “I said, Megan likes them but that isn’t really something she wants for herself. That it wasn’t how we saw our future together.”

She stared at him, momentarily at a loss for words. How could he know what she had never said out loud, not to anyone she was involved with. Not to him, either, too afraid to see some kind of judgement in his eyes.

And why did it make her want to pin him against the seat and kiss him?

“That’s exactly right,” she said.

“Thank god.”

“Did he ask you what I wore to bed?”

“Yes!” he said. “You too? And all sorts of stuff about the bedroom: what color were the curtains, which side of the bed was yours. Honestly, I’m glad we slept together. I mean - in the same room, obviously. Not, like, in a sex way -”

“Honey,” she said, “I know what you mean.”

He let out a sigh of relief. “Did we do good, Megan? Did we actually pass this thing?”

“I think so,” she said. “I _hope_ so.” She still needed to get through her audit, but Michael couldn’t help her with that one.

Her interview had ended when Mr. Loblaw had closed his notebook and put it down. He folded his hands on the desk and turned the full force of his attention on her. “Ms. Calvet,” he had said - for Megan kept her own name this time around - “Ms. Calvet, I’m going to ask you one more question. What was in your mind when you decided to marry Mr. Ginsberg, so soon after getting news of your audit?”

There were simple answers she could have given, and that was probably what he was expecting. We had a whirlwind romance, she could have said, with just the right amount of defensiveness. Or: why wouldn’t we get married; isn’t that what everyone wants to do?

But she hadn’t. “I know what you’re thinking,” she’d said. “I know what we look like to you. How he seems like he’s just some funny little man. But there’s more to him than - than being socially awkward and not knowing the right things to say. He’s loyal and he’s smart and hardworking. No one ever gave him anything. And honest, oh my god - you can imagine how important honesty is to me right now, after my previous marriage. Michael is willing to meet me in the middle; my ex-husband never was. There’s so much _inside_ of him, if you know what I mean. I wish I’d known how to look for those qualities when I was younger, but I didn’t. That’s my fault and I’m paying for it now. So can you blame me, when I found someone so good, for snapping him up?”

And whoever did end up with him; whoever actually did, after everything was said and done and Michael was cut free of her - well. They were going to be a very lucky person, that was all. She hoped they would know it.

“He’s my best friend,” she said, because sometimes the best way to lie was to tell the truth.

 

 

“I never know what to do at these fucking things,” Michael grumped. He was knotting and re-knotting his tie in front of the mirror. “If it was up to me we’d go out for burgers.”

“That’s what you have me for,” Megan said. She’d booked the reservations, happily. There wasn’t much she missed about being married to Don but she had always enjoyed the client dinners. She was good at them; it was like going to an audition without having to worry about getting the part. And the Larsens were young, for once. No need to be concerned about offending the delicate sensibilities of middle-aged executives or their wives.

“I dunno if they like sushi,” Michael said. “I never asked.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Megan. “Yamashiro isn’t really a sushi place. Just wait ‘til you see the view, it’s unbelievable.”

“You didn’t have to come,” he said. “I’m sure you got better things to do with your night.”

“They’ll expect your wife to be there,” Megan said. “And quit trying to wiggle out of your end of the bargain.”

They’d agreed that if Megan took the lead in schmoozing the potential clients - which he hated - Michael would escort her to her friend Ronnie’s party next week. Which he also hated, but hopefully not as much.

“She’s a little wild,” Megan had told him, “but it won’t be _that_ bad. I mean it isn’t going to turn into an orgy or something.” She added the last part because she liked torturing him a little bit too much.

“Oh,” he’d said, “and here I was hoping.” And then he had burst into laughter at her shocked expression. She would be the first to admit she deserved it.

Maybe the dress she picked for the night was slightly overblown for a client dinner. It was bright red and strapless. But she wanted to go dancing after, with or without the Larsens. There was no point in dressing like a nun.

She struck a pose against the doorframe. The picture wasn’t quite complete because she hadn’t decided on what shoes she wanted to wear yet, but she thought she looked pretty good. “What do you think?”

“Very nice,” he said, and turned away quickly.

Megan deflated. She’d been expecting more of a reaction than _that_. “Should I change? I have another -”

“No,” he said. “No, I like it. Wear that one.”

She chose white sandals with a stacked heel, and they made her significantly taller than Michael. But he never cared about her height.

Megan drove them up in her car because it would make a much better impression than his old beater. Michael settled down once they were out there. He’d told her once that he liked going down the open road like this, especially at night. It calmed him. She found herself sneaking glances at him, sideways, when he wasn’t paying attention.

The sun was just starting to drop when they arrived at Yamashiro. They would get to see the sunset by the time their meals were served.

Michael got out of the car and whistled. “Holy shit. This is some place.”

Megan gave her keys to the valet, who whisked her car away. “Isn’t it? It used to be a mansion belonging to a couple of rich eccentrics. They were obsessed with Asia, or something.” They stopped to admire the building’s peaked roof and ornate front doors. It looked like it had been dropped there from another world. She slipped her arm through his.

The Larsens were waiting inside. They were both blond - him, dishwater; her, platinum. He stood when Megan and Michael approached the table.

“‘Evening,” he said. “I’m Tim, and this is my wife Janice. Thanks for having us out here.”

Megan smiled and took his proffered hand. “Shouldn’t we be the ones thanking you?”

Janice grinned at her. She was smoking a cigarette, held delicately in her left hand. “Tim’s excited,” she said. “There’s nothing like this in Minnetonka.” She squeezed her husband’s arm as he sat down. “I’m from San Francisco and that’s where Tim and I met. We both really miss it.”

“Oh, I have _always_ wanted to go,” said Megan. “But somehow I never get down there.”

“Well, the night is still young,” said Janice, and Megan fell in love immediately.

Forty minutes later they had moved on to drinks and she was knee deep into a story about the time Warren Beatty tried to pick her up in line at the pharmacy.

“At first I was flattered,” she said. “Sure I was. But he was so gross about it. Like he expected me to just walk off with him after a five minute conversation - completely arrogant. He was almost _bored_. I was waiting to get my birth control pills, for god’s sake.”

“You never told me any of this,” said Michael. “How have I not heard this story before?”

“Maybe I didn’t want to make you jealous, honey,” Megan teased. “No, this was before we got together.”

“Is it wrong that I feel proud right now?” Michael asked. “I’m married to a woman who turned Warren Beatty down.”

“Did you consider it?” Janice asked. “Even a little bit. Tell the truth. Because I might be tempted to dump Tim for a minute. No offense, baby.”

“None taken,” Tim said. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

Megan tilted her head to the side. “I won’t lie,” she said with a wink. “I did wonder… once in a lifetime opportunity, right? But you know men who act like they’re above flirting always skip straight to the main event, so to speak.”

Tim and Janice broke out laughing. Beside her, Michael coughed as his drink went down the wrong way.

“Sorry,” she said. “And to think I promised to behave myself tonight. Whoops.”

“Do you think that song is about him?” Janice asked.

“Absolutely,” said Megan, scornfully. “Who _else_.”

Janice put her glass down and quickly checked her reflection in a silver compact. “I need to go powder my nose,” she said. “Megan?”

“I don’t understand why they do that,” Michael said to Tim as she and Janice rose from their seats and walked off.

In the washroom Janice fixed her hair and then pulled a joint out of her purse. Megan was delighted to see she had not made an error in judgement.

“You know what,” she said as Janice handed her a lighter, “the last time I was an advertising wife I didn’t have nearly this much fun.”

 

 

The boys were talking business when she and Janice got back to the table. “I’ll show you it, I brought a model up with me,” Tim was saying. “It ejects automatically, develops instantaneously - no more waiting around for the picture to dry, no more getting chemicals on your hands -”

“Megan, you hear that?” Michael said. “He’s talking about this new camera Polaroid is coming out with, the SX-70. It sounds amazing.”

“Our wedding pictures were taken with a Polaroid,” said Megan. “That seems like I’m buttering you up, but I’m not. Look.” She popped her clutch open and got her wallet out. Inside was her picture of Michael and herself on the courthouse steps. He was smiling, softly, face turned slightly to the side. She was doing the same, but looking directly at him. Her face was warm and open. Megan had gotten the better of their two wedding pictures, and she’d liked it too well to offer to trade with him.

Michael picked the photograph up by the edge. He hadn’t seen it before, she realized. There was something lovely in the way he was studying it, though she couldn’t put her finger on what.

“Oh, you eloped,” said Janice. “That’s so romantic!”

“Not to mention fewer drunk uncles,” said Tim.

“Oh, we couldn’t wait,” said Megan, and distracted Michael by dropping into his lap. She put her arm around his shoulders. “Could we?”

“No,” said Michael. “Definitely not.”

Janice examined the picture. “Is that the only one you have?”

“That and one other,” said Megan. “Because both of us forgot to bring a camera. Can you believe it?”

“It’s so hard to keep track of everything when you’re getting married,” said Janice. “But you’ll always have your memories.”

“We don’t get to pick what we remember,” Michael said. He was rubbing Megan’s back; it made her spine straighten. “Or how long we’ll remember it. But that’s what a picture is for. It’s the choice - that’s how we say: this one, right here. I want to keep this one.”

Janice and Tim shared a glance. “That’s it,” Tim said, solemnly. He pointed across the table. “That’s exactly what I want for the campaign. You’ll have to get it past my boss, and maybe add in a line about the speed of the camera -”

“I can do that,” Michael said. “I can absolutely do that. Needing a camera that moves as fast as life does -”

“Good,” said Tim. “Just what I meant. We’re keeping that one.”

Megan rested her cheek against the top of Michael’s head. “You’re so smart,” she said to him.

He looked dubiously up at her. “You have another drink while you were in the bathroom?”

“Not a _drink_ ,” she said. “Hey, who wants to go dancing? Michael promised he’d take me.”

“Ooh,” said Janice. She put her hand up in the air. “I do! I do!”

“Michael promised no such thing,” he said. “We never discussed dancing.”

“Please?” Megan asked. She batted her eyelashes at him. “Pretty please?”

Janice shot him a pleading look, which he attempted to avoid by finding quarter and sympathy in Tim. But Tim hid behind his wine glass. “I guess we could,” Michael said, with the unease of a man who knew he was being ganged up on. “But you’ll let me sit this one out, right?”

“Of course I will,” Megan said. “Would I lie to you?” Butter wouldn’t have melted in her mouth. Behind the chair, where he couldn’t see, she crossed her fingers.

 

 

The club was already packed when they got there. No valet parking here; they had to go a couple blocks over to find a spot. And wait in line, besides.

Michael looked over his shoulder at the crowd of people gathering behind them. “Why this place?” he asked. “What’s inside that’s so special?”

“Not what,” Megan said. “Who.” As if on cue a bouncer unclipped the velvet rope and let a fur-clad figure in, accompanied by her entourage.

“How come she gets to skip the line?” Michael asked, and Megan repressed a giggle.

It was warm enough inside that she wished she had a layer to shed. Michael went for drinks while Megan found them a table. He came back with seltzer water.

“It’s _hot_ in here,” he said. “Drink that first, then you can have booze.”

“Only if you dance with me,” Megan said, seizing upon the opportunity without shame.

“ _Megan_ ,” he groaned, “I knew you were going to pull this shit -”

“You knew who I was when you married me,” she said, grinning, and tugged at his sleeve. “It’ll be fun. I promise.”

The corners of his mouth turned up in spite of his attempts at gravity. He put the glasses down on the table with a sigh, and she knew she had won. “You always say so.”

“That’s because it always _is_.”

She led him by the hand out into the crush of bodies on the floor. He flinched a little when he came into unexpected contact with strangers and she kept an eye on him - Michael didn’t always do well with crowds, he found them disorienting. But he seemed okay, and his hand was relaxed in hers.

“Music’s kinda funny,” he said.

“It’s European,” she said, and faced him. She got in very close, close enough to notice the way his adam’s apple moved when he swallowed.

“I, uh,” he said. “I don’t know how to dance. I could never get the steps right.”

“There are no steps,” she said, and hooked her fingers in his belt loops. “You make it up as you go along.”

His eyebrows had gone up when she put her hands on his hips. When he spoke there was a nervous quiver in his voice that she found she did not mind at all. “Now you’re scaring me.”

“Just do what I do,” she reassured him. “It’s not a test, you can’t fail.” He nodded, his eyes set on hers.

“Show me,” he said, and oh - she liked that. She liked it a whole lot.

There were colored lights swirling overhead, across the floor and the dancers below in kaleidoscope shapes. Under their influence Megan and Michael turned pink, green, blue. Janice and Tim had disappeared somewhere in the crowd, but Megan didn’t look for them. She drew Michael in against her and put his hands on the curve of her waist. He was so strangely easy like this, he who was perfectly capable of fighting everyone on everything; letting her get him positioned, letting her loop her arms around his neck. He dropped his head for just a second to her shoulder.

“Ready?” she asked.

He smiled. “Yeah.”

“Here we go,” she said, and showed him how to move.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

 

It was Michael who drove them back to Megan’s apartment because she was yawning by the time she got to the car.

She rolled her shoulders back, stretching, and looked up at the sky. There was too much light pollution for many stars to be visible in LA, but there were no clouds and no smog. Just velvety black as far as she could see.

She twisted sideways with one foot tucked under her thigh and smiled at Michael. “I had such a great time.”

“It was a great night,” he said. “Because of you, mostly.”

“Not just me,” she said. “You were on fire out there. You sold a campaign without even pitching!”

“I was only trying to get in the door,” he said. “I never would have thought it would go that well - Jesus, am I gonna wake up tomorrow and this’ll all be a dream?”

“A shared hallucination, maybe,” said Megan. “Because I was definitely there.”

“That’s a relief,” he said. “I always like to have a witness, just in case.”

They pulled into her parking stall and got out. He gave her back her keys, but instead of heading for his own vehicle he walked her to the door. Megan didn’t open it right away. She turned towards Michael, her bare back brushing the wood. “This has been one of those nights I don’t want to ever end.”

“I know what you mean,” he said.

She reached out and touched his wrist. “Want to stay over?”

“I - I -” He was having trouble getting words out. She took pity on him.

“I’ll cook up some popcorn,” she said. “We can make fun of bad T.V.”

Michael looked down at his feet. He came to a private conclusion and shook his head. “I’d better not. It’s getting late.”

Megan frowned. She had lost him without knowing how. “Are you sure? Why not?”

He shrugged, and offered no explanation. “Call you tomorrow?”

She tried to temper her disappointment. But it was difficult - Megan was very good at wanting things, but bad at not having them. Being let down threw her for a loop every time. Like she got so excited she forgot the possibility of failure. And she’d thought -

“Drive carefully,” she said, and mirrored his shrug. She watched him go back to his car, the weird stiff set of his shoulders. The hesitant way he walked away from her. And then she went inside, and lay down on her bed alone.

 

 

Megan was painting her toenails when Michael called her. She propped the phone against the side of her face and continued on, adding an extra coat of red polish. “Hello?”

“Tim phoned me this morning,” he said, launching into the subject with no preamble. “He’s gonna be back in a month with the head honchos.”

“That’s _great_ ,” she said. “Are you excited? You must be.”

“Kinda nervous,” he said. “But yeah, excited too. It’s _Polaroid_ , Megan!”

“You deserve it,” she said. “Keep in mind that you earned this. It’s not luck, it was skill.”

“That come from one of your self-improvement books?”

“No,” she said, primly. “I came up with it all by myself.”

“What are you doing right now?” he asked.

“Um,” she said. It was almost noon. She was still in her nightgown, and had done nothing productive outside of watering the plants. “I’m looking at some course catalogs,” she lied. “I’m considering taking up painting.”

It was a pointless fib, and a stupid one. She didn’t gain anything from the telling of it. But here he was, working his ass off every day, while she wandered around being a bored rich girl. A dilettante. She barely even had interests anymore.

“Neat,” he said. “I had no idea you were into art. Ever think of being a painter?”

Not every little girl gets to do what they want. The world could not support that many ballerinas, Megan thought. She shook her head to try and get her mother out of it. Only Marie Calvet could haunt someone while she was still alive.

“I’m going to go check out some galleries for inspiration,” she babbled, cringing at herself. And then, in an attempt to get back to reality: “Maybe I’ll stop by your office this afternoon.”

“I don’t have any appointments,” he said. “That’d be cool. If you want to.”

She changed into a cute blouse and tied her hair back with a scarf before she left. Once in the car she stopped pretending she was going to any art galleries. Why had she said painting? She didn’t know a thing about painting.

Meredith waved at her when she entered the office. “He’s at his desk,” she said, and made a shushing sound. “He’s awful quiet in there, I think he might be asleep.”

Michael wasn’t asleep, but he did have headphones on. He was sitting at the window with his arms crossed, looking out over the city. He started when she took them off and put her hands over his eyes. “Guess who?”

“Peggy? At least I hope.”

“You jerk,” she said, and swatted him on the arm. “Forget about me buying you lunch.”

“Don’t take forever coming back,” said Meredith as they walked past her. She shook her finger at them in mock disapproval. “I’ll know what you’ve been dooooing.” He hustled Megan out the door as fast as he could, before Meredith could become any more appalling.

They went to a sandwich place down the block. Megan picked at her Italian sub and didn’t realize how obvious she was being until she glanced up to find Michael watching her.

“Alright,” he said. “Spill it.”

“I’m not learning to paint,” she confessed. “There, now you know.”

He blinked. “Oh- _kay_. Why did you tell me you were going to?”

“Because I wanted to seem like I was doing something that mattered,” she said. “Instead of lazing around in my pyjamas, waiting for you to call me.”

“What, like I was gonna judge you?” he said. “I’d stay in my shorts at home all day if I could.”

But he wouldn’t. They both knew it. Michael was too active; he had drive and ambition. Megan couldn’t remember where hers had gone. It used to be so important to her to make something of herself. Now she partied. And slept.

“I loved seeing you in action the other night,” she said. “I miss being part of a team. Feeling accomplished.”

“You know a million housewives across the country don’t work,” he said. “I don’t see anyone blaming them.”

“I never wanted to be a housewife,” she said. “Not even a rich one. Is that ungrateful? I swear I’m glad for the money. I’m praying the audit turns out well. But - I think I’m going a little stir crazy.”

And who was she, without all that money? What if she _did_ lose it? Her career was dead. She was a nobody.

“I get it,” he said. “You need an occupation for your mind. So what _do_ you want to be?”

“That’s the thing,” she said. “I don’t know anymore. Not since acting didn’t work out.”

He didn’t hold her hand, not exactly, but he bumped the tips of his fingers against hers on the tabletop. “You can afford to take your time. And you’ll get there. I know you will.”

 

 

Megan bought a bottle of wine on the way home. That evening she sat out on her balcony and had a glass while the sky flamed with red. She didn’t call Michael and bother him; she didn’t go to a friend’s place or light up a joint. The air was cool and pleasant, the wine crisp and refreshing. She drank it and thought about the future.

 

 

Michael was late picking her up for Ronnie’s party. For a paranoid minute she thought he was going to stand her up, but then he appeared at the door out of breath and still in his office clothes. Like he’d run from the car.

“Sorry,” he said, “head office kept me on the phone forever. And who has a party on a Wednesday, anyway?”

“People who don’t have to work,” she said. “No one shows up to a party on time. I’d lose the tie and jacket, though. No need to feel like you’re stuck in a boardroom with finance.”

He paused with his hand at his collar. “Megan,” he said, “isn’t that your wedding dress?”

She smoothed a hand down her front. It had hung in her closet, untouched, until tonight when she forced herself to take it out and put it on. She was being silly, acting like she had to preserve it. What was she saving the damn thing for? It was just a dress.

“Yes,” she said. “I might as well wear it more often. Why not?”

“Why not,” he echoed, and looked at her like -

It wasn’t a sexy dress. No cleavage, not much leg showing; nothing saucier than her shoulder blades. No bra either - not with the wide Bardot-type neckline - but no one would be able to tell. She had been going for soft and pretty when she bought it. Wedding appropriate. Which apparently he liked because he couldn’t stop staring at her.

She had no idea what it all meant. Except that Michael was a total weirdo.

And that if she’d known she would have worn it sooner.

He got his tie and jacket off and dropped them on the sofa. “Are we bringing anything? Bottle of wine?”

“Ha,” said Megan. “Ronnie’s husband makes me look poor. They’ll have enough of everything.” She stepped forward and undid the first couple of buttons on his shirt. “So you don’t look like you’re being choked,” she explained, and let her fingertips linger on the exposed patch of skin. “See? Aren’t you more comfortable?”

“Right,” he said. He was looking at her mouth. “I’m not usually real comfortable at parties.”

“You will be,” she said. “I have a good feeling about this one.”

 

 

Ronnie lived in a bonafide mansion. It was Spanish-style, white with a terracotta tiled roof. Her husband, who was a film director, had three garages for his cars. Both the front drive and the courtyard in the back were lined with tall palm trees. Most of the action was happening around the pool, so that was where they went.

Guests poured out of the huge french doors, dressed in Saturday-night finery in the middle of the week. Waiters in black-tie circulated among them, carrying bricks of hash and bottles of champagne that cost more than Michael’s car.

“Are you even gonna be able to find her in this place?” he asked.

“Possibly not,” Megan admitted. “But I promised I’d make an appearance.”

They did find her, reclining on a pile of huge cushions by the cabanas. Ronnie invited them to sit down with a languid gesture. She was wearing a crocheted bikini and earrings that touched her shoulders.

Michael shook her hand, which seemed to amuse her. He sat tailor-style next to Megan and observed the starlets and assorted wannabes climbing in and out of the pool, attention drawn by all the splashing. “Maybe we should’ve brought swimsuits.”

Ronnie exhaled smoke and tapped her cigarette against the edge of an empty champagne flute. “You can still jump in, if you aren’t bothered by getting your clothes wet. Or stripping off.”

As though to illustrate her point a girl standing at the edge of the pool pulled her top over her head. She had pale tan lines across her naked chest. His blush could be seen even by the light of the tiki torches on the lawn.

Ronnie noticed. Equally eagle-eyed about Hollywood gossip items or her husband’s extramarital affairs, very little got by her. “The human body is perfectly natural,” she said. “Don’t you think, Michael?”

“I’m trying not to think anything,” he said.

“You could try joining them,” she replied, sly as a fox in the henhouse. “Broaden your horizons.”

“Not really his scene.” Megan linked her fingers with his. More and more people were undressing and leaping into the water. Or making out with each other. So much for claiming there would be no orgies. “Michael’s shy.”

“In _this_ town?” Ronnie asked. “How does he manage that?”

“I’m from New York,” said Michael.

A group of girls wandered over to kiss Ronnie’s ass because they wanted to be in one of her husband’s movies. Megan leaned in during the diversion and planned an escape route. “Want to go check out the house?” she asked.

“Thank god,” Michael muttered.

She apologized once they were inside. There were people here and there, especially staff, but not as many and most importantly everyone was appropriately clad. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” she said.

“You weren’t the one playing Caligula poolside,” he said. His color was still high.

“No,” she said. “But I should have known what to expect.”

“You - you ever do anything like that?” he asked.

They were walking up the stairs to the vast upper story. Megan stopped and turned around, her hand on her hip. She raised her eyebrows and pressed her lips together. “Do you _want_ me to have?”

“No,” he said, quickly. “I didn’t - it’s your life, and uh - oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Honey,” she said. “I’m kidding.”

“My constitution can’t handle this,” he said. “I’m gonna have a cardiac event.”

“Was it the mental images?” she asked. “Because I could help flesh them out -”

“That part I can do myself,” he said.

All the air in her lungs left in a rush. He was gripping the banister with straining knuckles, but he wasn’t drawing away from her. And he met her gaze, even as he flushed all over again. His eyes were wide. They shared a kind of rapid, unspoken communication.

Maybe he was as sick of dancing around the truth as she was.

“There’s a legendary party happening downstairs, and we’re missing it,” she said.

“I don’t give a shit about the party,” he said. They collided somewhere in the middle of the steps, mouths together, clutching at anything they could reach. Megan fell backwards and dragged him with her, pushing her hips against his right there on the staircase.

“Megan,” he said, “Megan, we’re in public -”

“I don’t care,” she growled, and cupped him through his pants. Felt him swell under hand.

He made a _fantastic_ whimpering noise and got off of her. “Up,” he said, incoherent, and they stumbled the rest of the way. The first available room - to the left of the stairs, conveniently unoccupied - was a bathroom. They didn’t care.

It was a magnificent space, like all the others in the house. Marbled tile, gold edged mirrors that ran along the entire length of one wall, and an enormous sunken tub as spotless as fresh cream. If she had been in the mood for patience Megan might have convinced him to take it for a test drive. As it was she hauled him through the doorway by the front of his belt.

“Should we be doing this?” he asked. Like there could possibly be any question, like they weren’t exactly where they ought to be for once.

She pushed the door shut. “Why the hell not?” she asked. “You’re my husband, aren’t you?”

His eyes went dark and he kissed her and kissed her - on her lips, the underside of her jaw. The sensitive spot on the side of her throat that always made her sigh. Her nipples were getting hard, showing through the fabric of the dress. She was torn between touching herself or touching him. She wanted him to use his tongue on her, his teeth.

“Did you like that?” she said into his ear. “Husband, husband, _husband_ -”

He actually had to press the heel of his hand against himself, breathing hard through his nose. “Jesus,” he said, and backed her up against the vanity.

It was big enough to sit on, so she did. Something glass went crashing to the floor and there was a sharp smell of alcohol.

Megan peeled off her panties and threw them on the floor. She parted her legs, sprawling back across the counter. “You want it? Come get it.”

He cursed again, brought his mouth down to hers. At the same time he tugged at her bodice until her heaving chest popped free.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, and his voice was cracked, shot through with tenderness.

“Yes,” she said, “yes - that’s - _oh_ -”

She squirmed when he kissed her nipples, gnawed her lower lip when he dragged his tongue across them. The cool air bit at her when he moved away. Out of curiosity he scraped the edge of a fingernail against her slippery, pebbled skin and she arched her back off the porcelain and yelled.

“Bad?” he asked, “Megan was, that -”

“Good,” she said, “good - god, I’m wet. I am, feel -”

She put his hand between her legs. He rubbed slowly up and down with the flat of his palm, slicking himself, making her cunt throb. Every time she raised her hips his breath caught and he twitched. He was so hard she could see his zipper buckling.

“I want you to fuck me,” she said.

A tremor ran through him. “But -”

“I promise it’ll fit,” she said.

He buried his face in the space between her shoulder and her neck and laughed. “I was going to say I don’t know what I’m doing. Help me?”

She sat up properly, taking him with her. “You like taking instructions, huh?” she asked, and undid his belt. Then his fly - gingerly - and wrapped both hands around him. “Do you think about me telling you what to do? Do you touch yourself after?”

He swallowed down a moan, pink in the cheeks and bright-eyed. “I want to know what you like,” he confessed. “And I want to do all of it.”

“I’ll teach you,” she said. “I will, I’m going to show you so much. I can’t wait.”

She stroked him until he was spurting precome, hot and ready to go off. Then she guided him inside her.

He pushed in so slowly. Megan braced herself with her hands on the mirror behind her. She could have counted the inches - oh, he was careful, _careful_. Stretching her around his cock nice and gentle.

“Show me,” he said, and she rubbed her clit for him until he replaced her fingers with the pad of his thumb. “Like that?” he asked, his callouses rasping along her nerve endings in the best way.

“Christ,” she said, “yes, baby, like that. Now move.”

She kept at him until he fucked her as filthy as she wanted. Grinding into her with her legs in the air, fucking the coarsest grunts out of her, her thighs sticky and open wide. And all the while he said the sweetest things, that she was perfect and precious and he never stopped thinking about her -

\- and then he stopped, pulling out and leaving her empty and agonized. She could have screamed.

“A second,” he gasped, eyes momentarily screwed shut and his hairline wet with sweat. He was squeezing his cock around the base. “I just need a second.” He kept moving his thumb back and forth, enough to keep her warmed up but not enough to let her have the orgasm she was chasing.

“Were you going to come, Michael?” she asked. She spread herself with her fingers, showing him where he’d been. “Were you going to come inside me?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he sobbed, and slid back into her in a single fierce stroke that made her shout.

She came about a minute before he did and they shook apart together. The muscles in her legs jumped as she rode the pleasure out. Until she was limp and whining, blind with satisfaction. She wanted to keep him right where he was; she kept petting his hair, putting her hands down the back of his shirt. He mouthed at her collarbones and nuzzled between her breasts.

Until someone opened the door, and he went stiff with horror.

“ _Oh my god_ ,” he said.

“Uh, oops,” replied whoever was in the hall. “Sorry, buddy.” The door shut again.

“They’ve seen worse,” Megan reassured him. She didn’t let him go.

 

 

He woke up before she did, which was usual for him. But he didn’t get up and make breakfast or putter around the apartment or any of his typical activities. He stayed there with her until she woke, too, running his fingers up and down her arm.

“Hey,” he said, softly, and brushed her hair out of her face. “You sleep well?”

She smiled into the pillow and shuffled closer. Megan had known people who hated the morning after, the awkwardness, the morning breath. She had always loved it. There was something so intimate about laying stripped and sleepy with someone in your bed, learning what they looked like in the morning. How silly their hair was, whether they showered first or brushed their teeth.

“Mmm,” she said. “I slept great. You?”

“Like a baby,” he said. He craned his neck to look at the bedside clock. “I’m late, in fact.”

“You could stay home,” she said, and kissed the side of his shoulder. “It’s just a day.”

“I could,” he said, and his eyes drifted closed when she put her mouth on his throat. Sucked a bruise there, to go with another she had given him. “I can,” he said. “I think I will.” And he let her pull him into her embrace.

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really only a chapter for them to laze around in before I return to the plot.

 

 

 

Megan, fresh from the bath and wearing a towel, climbed on top of Michael and pinned him to the bed. She was getting water on his clothes from her dripping hair, but he was only half-dressed in any case. He still had time to get changed.

“Megan,” he said, giggling when her kissing grazed a ticklish spot, “I have to go to work. You’re gonna ruin my career -”

“So?” she said, and threw her towel on the floor.

He put his hand on her inner thigh. “Can I - um -”

“Can you what?”

His face turned red. “Can I go down on you?”

His words came out in a rush, and he had gone flushed and embarrassed, but she was impressed. Michael had a hard time initiating. It was a big step for him.

“Yes,” she said. “You absolutely can.” And she felt wonderfully self-indulgent and decadent, lying back against the pillows with her husband’s head between her legs. He was making himself late for work on purpose, because he wanted to know what she tasted like when she came.

God, what a nice way to start the day.

She was still high from her orgasm when she sat astride his hips and started tugging his pants down his thighs.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, you don’t have to - I wasn’t expecting -”

“Think of this as a challenge,” she said, and kissed his wet mouth. His hair was so messy from her hands that he might have to redo it, too. She imagined him going into the office like he was, marked all over with her. Carrying the memory through boring meetings and conference calls; having to leave early because he was so distracted. Unless he showered again they were going to smell the same. Did he know how good he looked? “Want to see how many times you can get me off before you have to leave?”

He rose to it, as she hoped he would.

 

 

Suddenly they had to know everything about each other. It was like they were training for an immigration interview again. Trying to fill in all the gaps of their history together; childhoods, careers, former relationships. “I almost eloped at nineteen,” Megan would say, “but thank god my mother broke it up.” Or she would ask him, “What was coming to New York like, when you were a kid? Did you miss Sweden?” She got the sense that his early years weren’t easy for him to talk about, so she asked him in the dark and the quiet when they were in bed together. But he answered all her questions.

“We came over in the early spring,” he said. “It wasn’t as cold as Sweden. That was the first thing I noticed. But Morris had gotten me new shoes, so I’m sure that helped.”

“Where is your Dad from, again?”

“Poland. Warsaw.”

“So why Sweden? For adoption, I mean.”

He closed his eyes. “Dunno. Maybe because there were so few of us left in Poland after the war. Or he just never wanted to go back. Who would?”

There was nothing to say about the terrible things people did to one another or what had been done to his family, so she hugged him. On her side with her arm across his chest. He threaded his fingers through her hair and kissed the top of her head.

“My turn,” he said.

“Fire away.”

“What’s your dream role?”

She put her hands over her face and rolled away from him. “Oooh no,” she said. “No.”

He caught her hands in his, laughing. “Why? C’mon, it’s not a bad question.”

Megan made a frustrated noise; something like a tea kettle about to boil over. “Does it matter? I won’t get to play it.”

“How do you know?” he said. “You could get hired on tomorrow.”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t,” he promised. “Not even if you say Frankenstein.”

“Nora. From _A Doll’s House_.” She had loved the play since her junior high drama teacher - whip thin, always smelling of smoke, vaguely a beatnik - had walked them through the scenes. Of course not many of the students had understood it at the time. It wasn’t written for the young. But Megan had grown up watching her parents fight, at volume or hissing insults under their breath. In the kitchen, the bedroom, the backyard where Marie once threw a trowel at Emile. And she had been discovering evidence of her father’s affairs since she was too small to understand what they meant, or why they made _Maman_ so angry. A lipstick that had rolled under his desk. A woman’s lace-edged handkerchief in a coat pocket.

What would it be like to leave whenever you wanted? Even if you had children.

As an adult she understood Nora too well, and too personally. Thinking about her left an ache of recognition in Megan’s chest.

Michael looked puzzled. “I’ve read that one. Why would I laugh?”

Megan picked at the delicate bow on the front of her nightgown, the size of a cherry stem. She unknotted the loops. “I can’t even get on a set as an extra, much less someone with a line or two. You think anyone’s going to give me Ibsen?”

“Aren’t there people who are successful on the stage but not in movies?”

“Yes. But I’m not one of them.”

“You could be,” he said. “They do have theaters in the wilds of Los Angeles, or so I’m told.”

Megan thought about having to get up onstage, in front off all those eyes. Everyone waiting for her to make a mistake. She used to be able to, but - it had been a long time.

“I’m bad at auditioning,” she said.

He tried to tie the bow back up, but his fingers weren’t deft enough. He smoothed the ribbon down. “I’m bad at interviewing. And client meetings. And a million other things. No one’s good at everything their job wants from them.”

“You have to be when you’re an actress,” she said. “You have to be talented and beautiful and easy to get along with. There are a million pretty girls out here headed in the same direction I was. I don’t stand out enough.”

Directors could look like stale potatoes and have a personality to match, actors could show up three hours late and too hungover to remember their lines. But the girl - she had to perfect. And that’s all she was, most of the time. The _girl_. There to bask in the reflected glory of the men in charge and display a winning smile on the poster or the screen. To be looked at, and then forgotten.

If she was lucky. Megan had friends who’d gone to dark places with Hollywood types in hopes of a career boost. And she’d had some offers herself. _Have you ever thought about being in the movies_ , these men always seemed to start out.

“You stand out plenty,” Michael said. “Who could forget you?”

“God,” she said. “You little sweet talker.”

“I was being serious!”

“I know, that’s what makes it so great.” She kissed him, quickly, her hand cupping his jaw. “You’re always serious when it counts.”

“Are other people not?” he said, and he was serious about that too. Oh, he wasn’t what she would call naive. There was a difference between being isolated and being sheltered. But he didn’t understand liars and he didn’t understand cheats.

“Not always,” she said. “Depends who.”

“Don?” he said.

Megan sighed and put her head on his shoulder. “Not only him. I didn’t have a lot of nice boyfriends.”

“I wish I had known how he was treating you,” he said. “I woulda said something.”

“We weren’t even friends back then,” she pointed out.

“I still would have.”

She grinned at him. “You know what? I believe you.”

It was getting past midnight, and they both should have been asleep. If Megan was a responsible adult she would have said so. But all she wanted to do was stay up and talk, as long as they could manage.

“Who was your first crush?”

“Uh,” he said, in the tone of a discomfited confession. “Joey Epstein, who sat two desks ahead of me in History. Not that I understood so at the time. I just knew I wanted his attention real bad.”

“I did the same thing,” she said, “with some of my girlfriends. I mean I would try to get them to practice kissing with me. I’m lucky their parents didn’t find out.”

“I was terrified in locker rooms,” he said. “Afraid of getting caught, of being seen _looking_ -” He shook his head. “I haven’t lost that fear, still. Some things you can’t outgrow.”

“Caution isn’t bad.”

“No,” he said. “But cautious can become frozen. Which I was, for a while.” Michael frowned. “Especially with Stan. I liked him so much more than I let on. And he’s such a -”

“A guy,” Megan supplied.

“Right,” said Michael. “A guy’s guy. He’d never speak to me again if he knew.”

“I’m not sure,” said Megan. “He’s calmed down a lot. I think Peggy tamed him.”

“Good for her. Someone had to.”

“What did you want be when you grew up?” she asked.

“A pirate.”

“No, really - what? I wanted to be a nun, for about five minutes. It seemed peaceful. Then I hit puberty.”

“An astronaut,” he said. “Before it was a real job, back when the only rocketships were in books I was reading. I always liked the idea of space. But I’m not good at science or - physically appropriate. I’d have an asthma attack the minute we left the atmosphere.”

“You don’t have asthma.”

“I’d develop it.”

“The idea might be better than the reality,” Megan said. “Seems to me you could get lonely up there.”

“I was plenty lonely down here,” he said.

She imagined the kid in the photographs that now resided in her living room, all elbows and eyes, with his nose stuck in a book more often than not. Constantly at odds with somebody. If it wasn’t easy for Michael to make friends now it must have been impossible back then. How did he not crumble under the pressure, she wondered. How did he not give up and throw his own personality away? She would have. But Megan had always wanted to be liked. It was a reoccurring problem.

“Space scares me,” she said. “There’s too much emptiness. I would get lost.”

He linked their fingers together and held her hand against his chest. Underneath her palm she felt the steady, comforting tick of his heartbeat. “You’d have to navigate by the stars. They’re fixed points, they don’t move.”

Megan thought about fixed points as she fell asleep. Signposts scattered throughout the universe, by coincidence or put there by a force she couldn’t grasp. She dreamt she was floating in a warm ocean. The constellations above her were bright and clear.

 

 

Michael was later than he thought he would be, but the delay gave Megan extra time to get ready so she didn’t mind. Besides, her setup looked better with candles and they wouldn’t have been visible without the dark.

Well, not quite dark; it was mid-sunset when Michael rang her doorbell. “They wouldn’t get off the phone,” he said. “And still they said fucking nothing.” So his relationship with the head office was the same as ever it was.

Megan took his hand. “C’mere,” she said, and led him out to the balcony.

She had her beach towel spread out across the floorboards, and a basket containing wine and fruit and cheese sitting on it. Around it she had placed tealights in china saucers. None of them matched; she’d gotten them at garage sales and flea markets. They caught her eye with their sweet patterns, yellow flowers and gold filigree and blue windmills.

“I thought we might do something different,” she said. “Picnics aren’t usually at night, but -”

Was the concept too mushy? Maybe he wanted a beer and a nap.

“You’re amazing,” he said. “Where do you even get these ideas?”

Warmth rolled over her like a wave. She couldn’t have stopped herself from smiling if she wanted to. “I _was_ a creative once,” she said, and tapped the side of her head. “Still got a few kicking around in here.”

Michael looked out over the railing while Megan unstoppered the wine. “I can see why you didn’t buy a big house somewhere,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to give up the view, either. Back in New York all I ever saw from my place was a dirty alley and other people’s windows.”

“Ever see anything interesting in them?”

“I didn’t _look_ ,” he said. “Jeez, Megan. I guess I know now why you’ve got this.” He gave her telescope a spin.

“That’s for the stars,” she said. “But if anyone was close enough I… might.”

“Megan!”

“What?” she said. “It’s normal to snoop. Everyone does - Edward Hopper practically made a career out of it. I assume people are looking in my windows all the time.”

“I’m never taking my clothes off here again.”

Megan laughed and took a swig from the bottle. “I’m attached to my apartment. Not only for the view. It’s where I -” She shrugged at Michael’s curious expression. “It’s where I started getting myself back, after Don. And I never thought that I would; I was _miserable_ when I came to LA. I felt alone for the longest time. I didn’t know anyone, I couldn’t get work, I had a husband who had no interest in being with me.”

“Back when we worked together I couldn’t have pictured you being lonely. You were so -”

“What?”

“I dunno. Sparkly.”

“I must be a better actress than I think.”

“Or you can hold it together,” Michael said. “You did before, and then again with all this immigration shit. You should be proud of yourself.”

“If you weren’t with me I’m not sure I could have,” Megan said. She turned towards the edge of the balcony, the sprawl of Los Angeles glittering below and beyond. It was best at night, full of possibilities. In her early days in the city she used to stand out here in her underwear and let the breeze cool her down on sweaty, anxious evenings. God, she’d been a wreck. Every crazy, wannabe actress stereotype; longing for a man who didn’t want her and a career she had already destroyed.

She looked back on the ragged girl she’d been and could barely recognize her. It all seemed very far away. And if she couldn’t be an actress then she could at least be _something_. Life had taught her some very good lessons about putting all her eggs in one basket.

“Did I make you sad?” Michael asked. “I didn’t mean to.”

She smiled and walked over to him. “Never,” she said, hugging him from behind and digging her chin into his shoulder. His hair tickled her nose. “Come sit down, have something to eat.”

“Weird french cheese?” he asked.

“Weird french cheese,” she confirmed. Megan could put together a meal when she had to, but it wasn’t an interest of hers. She avoided the oven whenever possible. “It’s special, you’ll like it.” At the very least he wasn’t going to complain. Michael didn’t turn away free food.

Megan folded her legs on the towel and popped a grape into her mouth. “Tell me about your day.”

“Not that much to tell,” he said, spreading mustard on a cracker. “Got asked a lot of questions about Polaroid while I was on the phone. Either they’re excited or they don’t believe me.”

“Right, that’s coming up soon. Are you nervous?”

“No,” he said - and then, after a pause: “Yes.”

“You impressed Tim already,” she said. “No one else will stand a chance.”

“We can only hope,” he said. “Wish I was allowed to bring you with me. You’re like a good luck charm.”

“Aww,” she said. “But you’ll be fine. They won’t know what hit them.”

A smile flickered across his face, smoothing his worry away. “You make the outcome sound inevitable.” He took the wine bottle from her and poured some in his glass. “You know, I spoke to Morris yesterday and the very first thing he asked about was you. If we could bottle the effect you have on people -”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, pleased down to the marrow. “I’m polite, that’s all. It’s a Canadian thing.”

“Do you ever miss Canada?”

“Oh, sometimes,” she said. “But not the winters. Or my family constantly bugging me.”

“How’re Marie and Roger doing?” Michael asked. “They still in Europe?”

“Yes,” said Megan. She felt uncomfortable whenever the subject of her mother came up. For she hadn’t - technically - informed any of her relatives about their marriage. An allusion to a new relationship here and there, yes. But no confirmation. Megan had no way of predicting how Marie would react. And they’d been having so much fun; she wanted to enjoy herself without someone else interfering.

“Maybe once you’re cleared for travel again we could visit,” he said, studiously not looking at her. He moved the cheese around instead, stacking it in a line. “Seeing France would be kinda interesting. Like a honeymoon, almost.”

“Like a honeymoon,” Megan echoed. God. She wanted to go far too badly. She wanted to walk along the Seine and drink real coffee and watch him be unimpressed by the Eiffel tower. “ _If_ I’m cleared to travel. We don’t know how my case is going to turn out yet. Or if they’re going to take all my money.”

She had done everything she could, including hiring an accountant to help get her finances in order. All there was left to do was wait, which was the worst part.

“If you lose your money I’ll take care of you,” he said. “I may not be rich but I do okay. And if you have to go back to Montreal -”

“Then what?”

“- then I’m going with you,” he finished.

Megan had a lump in her throat and she didn’t know why. It was perfectly in character for him to make the offer. She was just -

“Why?” she asked. It was a stupid question, even an offensive one. In another moment or a different mood she may have sparked an argument. No one wanted to be asked ‘why’ when making a declaration of loyalty. Didn’t phase Michael, though.

“Because I love you,” he said, gruffly.

She stared at him, struck dumb, with her wine glass dangling limply from one had. When he met her eyes it was with hesitance. He was afraid she was going to reject him. Laugh, or leave. And he’d told her anyway.

“Oh my god,” she said, and threw herself at him.

“Megan,” he said, as her arms went around his neck, “Megan, the candles -”

But she didn’t care. She didn’t care at all.

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

 

Megan started going for walks in the afternoon. Recently she found she was full of energy and renewed purpose. After her divorce she had been spun out of orbit for a long time in some mixture of relief and confusion. And all that money; it was unreal. She hadn’t known what to do with it, or with herself. She had wanted to do everything. Or nothing - to crawl into bed and sleep for a year. Michael had been a stabilizing influence. He would laugh if she told him so. But it was true. They’d already been friends by that point, and gradually he became a kind of anchor. He didn’t give a shit about money or status or fame; anything that people longed for in LA. Or in New York, for that matter. Being with him was an automatic re-calibration, like being pulled out of a smoky room into the fresh air. Sometimes it was like he came from another planet. Her little alien.

The heat was starting to burn off, the city turning towards fall. It was a fakeout; they always got a burst of warmth before autumn truly set in - as much as it ever did in California - and the fires hadn’t even started yet. Still, she was going to enjoy the reasonable temperatures while they lasted.

She liked walking through her neighbourhood. Better than she liked LA proper, downtown or the clubs or the Walk of Fame. It was a step removed, quieter and speckled with greenery. A touch wilder. She wondered how it had looked before the houses were built. If there had ever been pueblos here - a spaghetti western come to life.

Some of the neighbours had spectacular gardens. She walked past ferns that were as tall as she was, palm trees with fat trunks and leaves like daggers. There was an enormous jacaranda on the corner that was heavy with purple flowers when in bloom. They were beautiful but also dropped sticky petals all over the sidewalks. It was too late in the season for flowering, so she lingered in the shade without fearing for the sanctity of her shoes.

The air was dry and dusty, like old spices. Megan smiled behind her sunglasses at the people she passed who were out walking their dogs or pushing babies in strollers. When she got home Michael’s car was parked out front.

He was back much earlier than usual. She found him asleep in the bedroom, lying on his stomach with his arms tucked under the pillow. He was wearing his work clothes, which were rumpled, and there was an empty glass sitting on the bedside table.

She didn’t stop to smell it, or come to a sensible conclusion regarding the situation. No, she had come across Don the same way too often to be rational.

“Michael,” she said, shaking him awake. “Michael, have you been drinking?” She snatched the glass up off the nightstand and brandished it at him for effect.

He awoke looking bewildered and then hurt. There was an imprint from the pillow on his cheek. “What the hell are you talking about?” he asked. “Megan, that was _water_.”

Her face went hot as embarrassment marched through her. She was so stupid - of course he wasn’t drunk. The only time she’d seen him drunk - really sauced, not a tiny bit tipsy - was because she had dragged him to a party and let a sailor feed him tequila. He wasn’t going to be dipping into the bottle in the middle of the day. That wasn’t something he did.

“Oh,” she said, and put the glass down quickly. “Did you get sick? Are you not feeling well? I can make soup.”

“I’m not sick,” he said, and turned over on his back. “I had a bad day.”

She sat down on the edge of the bed. “How bad?”

He just looked silently up at the ceiling and for a minute she was worried. Maybe something had happened to Morris, or he got some other bad news from New York.

“They’re taking me off Polaroid,” he said. “I don’t get to pitch.”

“ _What_?” Megan asked. “That doesn’t make any sense, you’re the one who got the meeting in the first place! It was your idea!”

“Polaroid may want my ideas but McCann never has,” said Michael. “I’m an - an extra organ they keep forgetting they have, like an appendix. Fuck, maybe I should call Tim up and ask if he can get me a job.”

“You’re not an appendix,” Megan said. “They’re a bunch of assholes. How’s that for an anatomy lesson?”

He laughed and briefly covered his eyes. Then he sighed and sat up. “And there’s not one single thing I can do about it. McCann holds all the cards; they decide to send someone out and they’re gonna send someone out. All I get do is sit there.”

Megan got up and stalked into the living room. Her purse was on the coffee table with her cigarettes in it. She lit one up and went back to Michael.

“ _Tabarnak percé_. I can’t believe this,” she said. “My god, what nerve. And what _idiots_. You had everything locked down. I saw proof with my own eyes. No ringer is going to be able to do as well.”

“Tell my bosses that.”

“I _will_.”

He smiled at her. “You know, I believe you would.”

She climbed onto the bed next to him and ducked under one of his arms. He squeezed her close and she exhaled smoke, turning her head so that it wouldn’t be in his face. “Don’t let them get you down, honey. You have more talent than they know what to do with.”

“Does it matter if I got talent or not?” he asked. “Not like it helps me much. I am so fucking tired of working my ass off for nothing.”

“It’s not for nothing,” she said. “You’re building a career.”

“What career?” he asked. “They’re eventually going to fire me. You know they will.”

Megan kissed him, kind of on the front teeth since his mouth was open. “I don’t know that. Neither do you.” She poked a finger into the side of his ribs, where he was ticklish. “Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Michael tugged her over, so that she could get between his legs and lean back against his chest. He didn’t argue, but she didn’t fool herself into thinking that meant he believed her.

 

 

They had a stretch of them, beautiful days that looked like Los Angeles did in her imagination before she’d faced the reality. Soft blue skies touched with cloud, red sunsets that made the horizon look like a lava lamp. The palm trees lining the streets were wispy black silhouettes against those skies, so perfect that they looked like they’d been painted there. It was a movie set come to life. Sometimes Megan wondered if she was making it all up, an extreme example of pathetic fallacy; if she was so happy that she was starting to misinterpret the landscape. There was, after all, still smog and terrible traffic in the world.

She got Michael out of the house as much as possible. He still paid rent on his place but he hadn’t been there in weeks. Megan had already rescued the one living thing he left behind - a half-dead agave that a neighbour had given him - and added it to her own collection for rehabilitative purposes.

“You have such a green thumb,” he said, one evening when he was watching her tend to the plants.

“I always loved gardening,” she said. “We had a yard in Montreal and my mother used to tell me off for playing in the dirt. I haven’t had that much room since, but there are plenty of things that you can grow on a balcony.”

“You ever want to go camping?” Michael asked. “I’d be willing to try it if you wanted to. I’ve never been.”

Megan took a moment to contemplate what the two of them would get up to if let loose in the woods.

“I like nature when it’s not trying to kill me,” she said.

They went for drives on the PCH, along the shoreline, and watched the waves crash and froth with white. “There’s so much space in California,” he said, with a kind of quiet awe. “I can’t get over it.” She even convinced him to take a day off and go to the beach with her.

He had to buy swimming trunks because he didn’t have any. “Careful,” she said, slapping him on his reddening shoulder when they were out in the water. “You might actually get a tan.”

Michael liked to call her at lunch, and they would talk while eating. Not quite as good as being in the same room, but close. Her apartment wasn’t close enough to his office to make coming home in the middle of the day feasible, so when he showed up at the door with a bag full of fragrant roast beef sandwiches and cups of strong coffee from her favorite Greek deli she was thrilled.

“I wasn’t expecting you!” she said, and kissed him on the cheek.

“No one ever is,” he said. “I like to be unexpected.”

“Not much going on at work?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “Also I missed you.”

“You _sap_ ,” she said, but didn’t hide how pleased she was.

They went out on the balcony to eat. Megan stirred cream into her coffee and watched drowsy bumblebees land on the leaves of her plants, looking for nectar. The beef was tender and juicy, still hot from the oven. She almost felt guilty for eating it. Almost. Besides, there were no directors or casting agents around to make comments about her thighs. That was one nice thing about no longer being an actress. She knew some girls who popped pills like candy in an effort to reduce or maintain their weights. Who hadn’t had a piece of cake in years.

“I don’t think anyone has ever brought lunch home for me before,” she said. “Or dinner. Not without being asked to. I feel like the husband in an old sitcom.”

“Really?” said Michael. “Not even when you were married before? During the - what is it called. Honeymoon period.”

No, she thought. That had primarily been sex. And Megan loved sex. She just didn’t _only_ love sex. “I never caught Don doing a chore,” she said. “Not that he was one of those men who didn’t understand how to do them. He kept bachelor’s hall before he met me, and he didn’t grow up rich. But once I was there it was my responsibility, either to do them or to hire them out. He didn’t like surprises, either.” Or not the kind she did. “The weird thing was how much his ex-wife hated me, even though she was already remarried by the time I met him. It was like Betty thought I was getting some kind of preferential treatment. But I’m sure I went through the same shit she did.”

“You know she died, right?” Michael said.

“You’re thinking of someone else,” Megan said. “Betty is only about forty. If that.”

“No,” Michael said, slowly. “I’m sure it was her. Peggy saw the obituary. Also her husband was kinda well known in politics - Frank, I think his last name was? Joyce had a cousin who worked as a staffer for him, so she heard about it to.”

“Francis,” Megan said, going cold. “His last name was Francis.”

“Lung cancer,” said Michael. “That’s what the cousin said it was. Awful young, too.”

“My god,” said Megan. She felt unbalanced, suddenly, like she’d stood up too fast. Nauseated, like her good lunch was trying to come back up. “She has three children. What are they going to do?”

“You okay?” he asked. “You look pretty green around the gills.”

She wasn’t okay. Betty had been in her thirties and had no business dying. And Sally. Oh god, _Sally_. Megan was possessed of the urge to cry for a woman she had hardly known and never liked.

“No one told me,” she said, and got up. Vaguely she started to gather up the remnants of lunch, to have something to do with her hands. When he took the garbage from her she didn’t protest. She wandered instead into the living room and sat on the couch.

“How can something like that happen?” she asked.

He sat next to her, a concerned line appearing between his eyebrows. “You need me to stay home?”

“No,” she said. “We weren’t - we weren’t friends, Michael. Jesus. I said some _terrible_ things about Betty.”

“In her hearing?”

“ _No_ ,” she said, shocked. “No, of course not.”

“Then she didn’t know about them.”

“That’s not the point,” she said, though she wasn’t sure herself what the point was. “It’s - what about her kids? They’re all alone. They don’t have their mother - they sure don’t fucking have Don.” He must have known. And he’d still run off. In the end he left all of them behind, not just her. “His oldest - his daughter was - I liked her. She was hard to reach, but I did like her. And I haven’t spoken to her since I left for LA. I stopped trying because she was being difficult and I was too tired from other things.”

“So call her,” he said. “I’m sure you could get the number somehow.”

“I can’t do that,” Megan said. “She wouldn’t want to hear from me. Who am I to her, anyway? Some second wife.”

“Are you sure you don’t me to stay home?” he asked. “I can. The agency won’t burn down, right?.”

She put a hand to her temple, rubbing at the ache there, and tried to pull herself together. “No,” she decided. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine. I’ll take a couple aspirin and lie down. You don’t need to stay.”

And she did lie down, after he reluctantly left to go back to work. She waved at him from the open door and then she went to the couch and tried to get comfortable. But she couldn’t stop thinking about it, especially the kids. Baby Gene wouldn’t be such a baby anymore. She wondered if Bobby had ever gotten a handle on his nerves, if he still expected catastrophes from the news to happen in his backyard. Sally would be looking at colleges, if she wasn’t attending already. And she would have to do it all by herself, because her mother and her father were gone.

Megan got to her feet. She took her pack of cigarettes out of her purse, her engraved lighter. And then she threw them both in the garbage.

 

 

Megan knew how fragile relationships could be. Better than most people, she knew the effect of a single pulled thread; how easy it was to unravel. She had built houses on the sand before.

Romances dried up or imploded. Friendships drifted away. Even that old standby of stability - the nuclear family - wasn’t forever. She lived in an uncertain world. The Soviets were stockpiling bombs, the war raged on, and college students couldn’t protest on their own campus without getting shot.

(Women died of lung cancer, suddenly, terribly.)

But she felt safe with Michael. She liked to think that he felt safe with her, too. They’d created a kind of refuge together, and maybe it was from necessity or maybe it was from mutual desire; either way, it was working. For the first time in her life Megan was in a relationship that worked.

It started with a knock on the door.

Or not exactly. It started with her and Michael, fooling around in bed. They were wrestling, and she was winning.

She had her hands around his wrists. He kept giggling, every time she held him down, and she kept kissing him. It was easy to pin him against the sheets, and she thought he was letting her, and that made her think he might be amenable to a suggestion she had wanted to make for a while.

“You’re pushy tonight,” he said, and she pretended to bite the side of his neck.

She paused, looking down at the brightness in his eyes, the high colour creeping into his cheeks. “Do you want pushy?”

“What does that mean?”

Sometimes she had to be very obvious with Michael. “What if I -”

That was when the knock at the door came, when she was sitting astride Michael’s hips, trying to work up the nerve to ask if she could tie him up. Oh, she’d done it the other way round - men rarely said no if _they_ got to be the one on top - but none of them had been interested in letting her play the dominant role.

She glared in the direction of the door. “Are you _kidding_ me.”

Michael laughed. “Wasn’t one of your friends supposed to stop by to borrow a dress?”

“She was supposed to show up this afternoon,” Megan complained. “It’s ten o’clock at night.”

She should have had a premonition as she went to answer the door. A sharp and familiar pain, a sense of foreboding, the hair on her arms standing up. A gathering of clouds in the sky. Instead she walked towards the indistinct male figure showing through the glass of the door without so much as a pang of unease. Later she would recall thinking, I hope Erica didn’t send her boyfriend. I’m not even wearing pants. The lights were off everywhere except the bedroom, and it was too dark outside to see who it was until she got close.

Seconds after she recognized him she ran back into the bedroom, her heart in her throat. “Michael,” she hissed, “Michael, get out of the bed! It’s Don!”

“ _What_ ,” he said, and sat up right away.

She grabbed him by the arm with one hand and shoved what clothes she could find on the floor at him with the other. “It’s Don! Jesus _Christ_. Get in the bathroom!”

“But why?” he asked. “Megan, what’re you -”

Megan was too panicked and intent on smuggling him out of the room to hear his protests. She manhandled him into the washroom. “Please don’t make noise,” she begged, and closed the door.

A fast, wild scan of the bedroom floor told her that there were no obvious male accoutrements that would be visible from outside. Don wouldn’t - he wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t be able to _tell_.

“Megan?” he asked, when she opened the front door just a crack. Like someone else might be living there. An embarrassing breeze reminded her she was in a t-shirt and her underwear.

“Who else would it be?”

“Can I come in?”

She had to let him. What reason could she give for saying no?

He sat on the couch. She almost reminded him not to track dirt on the carpet, but there was no point.

When he reached over to turn on a lamp she got a good look at him. The first she’d had in years, since that day they sat across from each other in a lawyer’s office and he handed her a cheque she thought was a mean-spirited joke. He was so different than he had been back then that she was startled. Don as she had known him had been pretty buttoned up, pressed into an ever-present suit even when he was drunk and falling apart. This man - kind of sloppy, in an old denim jacket and with his hair falling into his eyes - was a stranger to her.

But what else was new.

He hadn’t smelled of booze when he went past, so that was a point in his favour. If he’d asked to stay the night to sleep off a bender she would have killed him.

“How have you been?” he asked, and there was something soft in his voice. She had a flash of old feeling, almost a memory more than an emotion, of how she used to see herself reflected in his eyes. Then it vanished.

She refused to be pulled off course. “I doubt you came by catch up. What do you want, Don?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His hands were clasped together like he was praying, or asking for forgiveness. “I have to tell you - Megan, the FBI is -”

“After you?” she said, mildly, and watched him gape at her. “Did you think I didn’t know?” He always thought she didn’t know. Didn’t know he was hiding liquor around the apartment after she’d requested he slow down. Didn’t know he was fucking other women -

Don was very good at underestimating her capabilities.

“I hoped you didn’t,” he said, and sat back with a worn-out sigh. “That you wouldn’t have to. Did they talk to you?”

“No,” she said. “But you know who did? The IRS, because I took money from a man who was lying about his identity on his taxes every year. Oh, and immigration, because our marriage wasn’t legal and therefore neither is my residency in this country. Surprise!”

“I thought that money would help you,” he said. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

Megan crossed her arms. “You never do.”

He gave her this wounded look, as if she was the one at fault. With the lamp shining on his face, she could see how tired he was. There was visible gray in his hair, and the lines around his eyes had deepened. Once upon a time, she would have been sympathetic. But she wasn’t his soft place to land anymore.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course I do! Do you know how much trouble I could be in if anyone knew you came to see me?”

“Oh,” he said. “I thought maybe you were -”

He glanced through her bedroom door, at her rumpled sheets. She got goosebumps, had to grit her teeth to keep from showing a reaction. Strained her ears trying to hear if any sound was coming from the bathroom; a cough, Michael knocking a bottle of shampoo into the bathtub.

“- entertaining.”

“I’m not _entertaining_ ,” she said. “There’s no one here. There doesn’t have to be for me to ask you to leave.”

“Are you with someone? I don’t mean right now.”

“No,” she snapped. “And it wouldn’t be your business if I was.”

“I know,” he said. “I just wanted to warn you. That’s all. I want you to be happy, Megan. I understand why you won’t believe me, but I do. Are you happy?”

She turned away. There it was - the same as always, a search for connection that would only end up being one sided. That was what he did. When she was feeling generous she thought it wasn’t on purpose. She wasn’t feeling generous right now.

“Consider me sufficiently warned,” she said. “Please go.”

He walked away from her slowly, his head down. As he descended the stairs outside to the parking lot he looked back over his shoulder, once. Whatever he saw made him stop. For a second he was like his old self again, with the squared shoulders and easy confidence she had fallen in love with.

“Don,” she said.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

She took a deep breath. “Goodbye,” she said, firmly, and closed the door on him for good.

Megan rested her forehead on the glass, drained. She had forgotten that about him, how he bled her energy from her. It wasn’t until the bathroom door opened that she remember about poor Michael.

Who was fully dressed and red to his hairline. He radiated fury as he crossed the living room, snatching up his keys from the coffee table as he went.

“Bye,” he said. “I’m going home.”

“Why?” she said. “Michael, come on -”

“No,” he said. “No, no - no talking me out of this. I’m not going to be shoved in the closet like some dirty little secret -”

“It was the bathroom -”

“It doesn’t _matter_ ,” he said. “My god, Megan. Are you that ashamed to be seen with me? Is that why your parents still don’t know? You couldn’t even tell your fucking ex-husband about us!”

“I get to decide who to tell,” she retorted. “Are you just pissed off because you didn’t get laid?”

He stared at her and went rigid in the most awful, brittle way. “If you think _that’s_ what this is about then I don’t even know what to say to you.”

“Wait,” she said, as he put his hand on the doorknob. She was panting, her chest tight, and had to actively resist the urge to grab at him.

“Give me a reason,” he said.

“He might be out there,” Megan said.

Michael shook his head. He opened the door to a parking lot populated by empty cars and bits of litter. Don was nowhere to be seen. “I don’t give a shit,” he said. “I’m not the one who cares about his opinion. That would be you.”

The apartment was very quiet with him gone. Megan went back to the still warm bed. She curled up on her side and pulled the blankets over her head until she couldn’t see anything at all.

 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

Time away from Ginsberg’s apartment had not improved it. If anything it was dingier to his eyes. The walls were covered in faded geometric wallpaper yellowed by years of some former tenant’s nicotine habit. There were water stains on the ceiling - some of them might even have been new. It smelled like dust, and the windows were so old the glass had gone foggy. He looked around in disgust. And then he thought: who was he to sneer? Had he become a snob, unable to appreciate a roof over his head? What the hell had he been doing - going to parties at Hollywood mansions, staying out for hours at clubs filled with colored lights. That wasn’t him. He belonged here, and his mistake had been in forgetting it. Guys like him -

But he wasn’t going to think about that. He wasn’t. He couldn’t, because he had to get up tomorrow and go to work and pretend everything was normal. If he let the ache in his chest take over -

(An actual, physical ache. How strange, that heartbreak should be so literal.)

\- he would never make it from one end of the day to another.

He checked the water to make sure it was still working, and turned on all the lights for the same reason. Well, you never knew. A bulb in the kitchen _had_ gone off, which he would have to replace. He stood on the peeling linoleum, staring up at it, and felt so tired that he had to go lie down.

There wasn’t anything to do - to get his mind off things. He didn’t have a television anymore; he’d given it to one of the neighbors in a fit of optimism when he started spending nights at Megan’s. He thought he wouldn’t need one. He thought that he could leave all this behind.

He had made an assumption, in the face of all available evidence. Too bad Megan didn’t agree.

His sleep that night was fitful. He never bothered to change out of his clothes and woke rumpled and groggy. Automatically, he reached over to the other side of the bed.

Of course there was no one there. In the confused minute between sleep and waking he had expected her to be, the way she had been for the past month. But that was stupid. Megan hadn’t stayed over at his place - hers was more comfortable, they’d both prefered to be there.

He spread his fingers against the sheets and wondered what he’d left behind in her bedroom, because there must have been something. If he should go back for it.

And suddenly he was crying, the way he told himself he wasn’t going to. He couldn’t seem to help himself; all he could do was press his face into the blankets to muffle the noise. It was scary, and out of control, and he hadn’t guessed a breakup would be this bad. That he could be given something he wanted so badly, only to end up wishing he never had it in the first place.

When he was done he wiped at his sore eyes with the side of his hand and made himself get up and shower. He couldn’t go into work an obvious, embarrassing mess. Meredith would ask questions.

His toothbrush was still at Megan’s, as it turned out. Luckily he had a spare in a bag underneath his bed, from the last time he went to see his father in New York. He brushed his teeth in the kitchen, his back to the counter, and tried to give a shit about the pretty sunrise outside the windows.

There was something different about the view. Ginsberg left the apartment, still in his bathrobe and with the taste of mint in his mouth, and went to the neighbor’s door. The one he gave the TV to. Oscar was sixty-five and slightly hard of hearing - it took a few minutes for him to register the knocking, and a couple more for him to shuffle to the door.

“Oscar,” said Ginsberg as soon as it was opened. “Where are the pigeons?”

“Wha’?”

“The pigeons. The ones that lived on the building. Where are they?”

“Oh,” said Oscar. “Those things. They’re gone, you know. The landlord had an exterminator out. Put a powder all over the windowsills and in the gutters.”

Ginsberg spent most of his workday staring blankly at a typewriter. When Meredith wanted to know why his nose was so red he told her he had a cold.

 

 

He thought she might call, but she didn’t. A day went by, and then another, and soon a week had flown away to wherever wasted time goes. The phone sat silent in its cradle.

 

 

McCann Erickson sent Russell Taft, their new golden boy, out to pitch to Polaroid. Ginsberg found his office occupied the morning of Taft’s arrival. He was sitting behind the desk, calling long distance. He had his feet up on it, displacing all Ginsberg’s papers.“Sorry, old pal,” Taft said, and attempted a roguish wink. “Just needed to call headquarters real quick.”

Taft was in Los Angeles for two days. During that time Ginsberg found out that he’d gone to Dartmouth, ‘summered’ in the Hamptons, and started working in advertising because his father did. “After I’d sown my wild oats a bit,” he said, significantly, and Ginsberg prayed for an attack of hearing loss.

“The girls here aren’t as pretty as I was told,” he said. “You’d think a town full of movie stars would up the average a bit.”

“They look fine to me,” Ginsberg said. He really hoped Meredith hadn’t heard. The door was open.

“I wasn’t saying I couldn’t make it work,” Taft said. He was wearing a wedding ring. “What happens in Vegas, right?”

Ginsberg shot a disapproving glare at him. Back in New York there was a young wife installed in a high-rise apartment building, dressed in the best clothes that money could could buy - and always wondering why she was so miserable.

“This is Los Angeles,” he said.

“The west coast is the west coast,” said Taft.

Ginsberg had no idea what that was supposed to mean. These guys talked in a fucking code and he had never been able to crack it.

“We should go over your pitch,” said Ginsberg. “I got a few ideas -”

Taft leaned back, hands in his pockets. The overgrown frat boy disappeared - he was all business. His round jaw seemed to have grown sharp angles.“There’ll be no need for any of that.”

“Any of what?”

“I was told you could be - oh. You know.”

“I don’t,” said Ginsberg. “I really don’t.”

Taft shrugged. He moved his face in a way that suggested he was trying to appear sympathetic, but it was like painting a human expression onto a ken doll. His eyes raked Ginsberg over, dismissing him piece by piece: the shabby jacket that was repaired instead of replaced, the cheap watch, the shoes that didn’t match. He made him vanish - whoosh. Ginzo gone-o.

Stan would have laughed at that.

“Overconfident,” Taft said.

“Overconfident,” Ginsberg repeated. His hand was already in his hair, messing with it out of frustration. He hadn’t been able to sit still all day. Now he flexed his fingers and gave it a small tug. The pain helped clear his head.

“By which they mean -”

“I know what it means,” said Ginsberg. “You don’t have to draw me a diagram.” He stood up and walked around the desk. Taft eyed him like he might try something, but he wasn’t going to. He didn’t have enough investment to make a scene. “Listen - how about you take the office, since I’m not allowed to play your reindeer games anyway?”

Taft held up his hand in a benevolent gesture. He posed like a father out of a sitcom, though Ginsberg had a few years on him at least. If there was a higher power in the universe, Russell Taft would catch an embarrassing but non-fatal disease. “Now, Michael -”

“No,” said Ginsberg. “This is great. I don’t even have to do my job, and I still get paid. It’s the American dream.”

He went to a coffee shop because he didn’t want to go home, but not before he stopped by Meredith’s desk. “If that lousy gonif says anything untoward to you,” he told her, “and I mean _anything_ \- I give you full permission to shove him out the window.”

 

 

They filed into the room, a stream of undifferentiated suits. Tim was at the back, dressed in navy blue. He was the only one that didn’t look like he’d come off an assembly line. He smiled at Ginsberg and shook his hand.

“Great to see you again,” he said. “How’s Megan?”

“Good,” Ginsberg lied. “She was asking about you the other day. Did Janice come out with you again?”

“You bet,” said Tim. “She wants to call Megan up for a drink.”

“Hah,” said Ginsberg, uncomfortably aware that he was getting into deeper and deeper shit the more he said. “Well, I’m sure Megan would love that. I’ll let her know her tonight.”

“I’ve been telling the guys about your ideas,” said Tim. He nodded towards his coworkers, who were getting themselves settled around the table. “They’re excited to hear them.”

“About that -” said Ginsberg, but Taft was already starting. When Ginsberg sat down, as mild-mannered and unobtrusive as McCann wanted him to be, Tim shot him a concerned look.

“Gentlemen,” said Taft. “We’re so pleased you came all this was to see us. Let’s not waste any time.”

Polaroid was not thrilled with Taft’s presentation. They were bored, because it was boring. At one point Ginsberg saw one of the executives fold a piece of paper from his billfold into a small paper airplane. He didn’t throw it, though. That would have livened things up.

Oh, it was a competent campaign. Even good, when viewed in a flattering light. The storyboard showed a pleasant suburban family going through their year: holidays and birthdays and special occasions. A little girl blowing out the candles on a cake, attending her first day at school. The parents celebrating Dad’s new promotion, going for a ride in a shiny white cadillac. In each sketch they passed a Polaroid camera around, snapping pictures. The tagline was: _Life comes at you fast: never miss a moment!_

It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t what Polaroid wanted. They wanted young, and fresh, and beautiful. That was their audience. Not people living like it was still 1962, who only caught on to the latest technology two years after everyone else had.

Ginsberg watched their chances slip away before his eyes. The only remarkable thing about it was his own reaction. Because he didn’t care. He catalogued the disinterested faces around the conference room - fidgeting, checking watches, yawning - and couldn’t bring himself to care at all.

“Excuse me,” he said, as soon as Taft finished. “I gotta go to the washroom.”

He sat in there unrolling and re-rolling the toilet paper. If he’d been a smoker he would have puffed his way through a pack to avoid going back in. In fact he could have kept on going; gotten his coat, left the office, started up his car. Who would stop him? Who would care?

Tim was waiting for him when he stepped back out into the hallway.

“They’re done?” Ginsberg asked.

“No,” said Tim. “They’re talking. I made an excuse. What the hell happened, Michael? You were a shoe-in. I’ve been working on them for weeks.”

“I was overruled,” Ginsberg said. “That’s what. Sorry if I landed you in hot water by convincing you to come all the way out here.”

“You didn’t,” he said. “We aren’t the ones losing out. But I don’t understand why your people went over your head. You must have had something better in mind. What was it?”

Ginsberg’s notion of the campaign had gone like this: a commercial followed a young couple who had accidentally become separated in a grand old city. Could be Paris, could be London or Rome - whatever was determined to be the most photogenic. They searched for each other through the course of a day in a montage of eye-catching images: city lights, her red boots in the rain, at least one near miss. There was music, but no dialogue. Finally, they met up on a bridge at night. His face went soft and wondering. She pulled the Polaroid SX-70 out with a smile, and took his picture.

_A camera that moves as fast as life does_ , a voiceover would say. _For the memories you want to keep_.

He’d been thinking of Megan when he wrote it. But he was usually thinking of her.

Tim looked at him expectantly. Ginsberg shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

 

 

He thought about going for a drive after the long day had driven itself into the ground. Hitting the highway and seeing how far he could get before he ran out of gas. He imagined himself getting out and walking, leaving the car and Los Angeles and advertising behind. Only stopping when he hit the ocean.

But that was no solution, and anyway - his shoes would get all torn up. He went home. A good idea, as it turned out, because he found Megan lurking in the doorway of his building. She was hitting random numbers on the intercom, trying to get someone to let her in. When she saw him her fingers fell away from the buttons in guilt.

“It doesn’t work,” he said. “None of them would let you in if it did. They’re pretty paranoid.”

“I wasn’t,” she said, and then blew out a breath. “Okay, I was. But only because you wouldn’t answer.”

“I’m not up there.”

“I meant the phone,” she said.

He frowned. “Megan, you never called me.”

“Bullshit,” she said, hotly, her face going red. “I’ve been trying to get through all week. Don’t you ever pick up?”

“I would have if you’d _called_ ,” he snapped.

“For god’s sake,” she said. “This is stupid. What are we even fighting about? There’s clearly something wrong with your phone. Let me in so I can take a look.”

She looked fantastic for someone who might have been suspected of recently lying in bed with a bottle of wine, a baggie of grass and a lot of regrets. If she was anyone else he would have taken that the wrong way. But he knew Megan. When she didn’t feel good she still tried to _appear_ good, to present an unblemished facade to the world. Maybe even more so than usual. The two pounds of fake hair, the short floral dress swishing around her thighs - it was armor.

Ginsberg didn’t need her to check his phone. She was making up an excuse to be alone together. He allowed her to come up with him all the same.

She pressed the receiver to her ear and made a triumphant noise. “See?” she said, and passed it to him. There was no dial tone. “When was the last time you paid your bill?”

“I must have forgotten,” he said, and hung up. So she _had_ wanted to see him. He’d been thinking it was over, that things between them were going to end on a single sour note. If that wasn’t true -

“We need to talk,” he said.

Megan pressed her lips together, and then gave him a dry smile. “Do we have to?”

“Is there another way to fix this?”

“I can think of a few,” she said. “But you probably wouldn’t be interested in them right now.”

He wasn’t mad at her anymore. In fact it was difficult not to go to her and kiss her, tell her it would be okay, lay down on the bed with her. But they couldn’t jump straight to the fun, making-up parts. “You want some coffee?” he offered. “I seem to remember how you take it.”

“Sure,” she said. When he turned back around, mugs in hand, she had seated herself in what passed for the dining area. There was a letter on the table between them. It had the Immigration and Naturalization Service seal printed on the top corner.

“Fuck,” he said, and put the mugs down with a thump. “Is that -”

“I got it in the mail the other day,” she said. “I thought you might like to know how everything turned out. Go ahead - read it, if you want to.”

He did, the paper quivering in his nervous fingers.

“This -”

“Solves all our problems,” she said. “As long as the audit goes well. I know. And even if it doesn’t -” She shrugged. “Nothing that happens to my money will touch you. You’re free to do whatever you want.” Her hands were folded on her crossed knee, and her shoulders were squared. But her foot was tapping on the floor. She couldn’t keep it still.

Ginsberg folded the letter and handed it to her. “Okay,” he said. “Do you want a divorce?”

“ _What_?” she said. “When the hell did I say so? I was trying to give you _options_.”

“It’s an option,” he said. “So I’m gonna ask you again - do you want a divorce?”

“No,” she choked out. “Do you?”

“Nope,” he said. “But I needed to see how you felt. Because I don’t know if I’m your husband or what. Am I your boyfriend? Am I a guy who helped you out? Are we married for real?”

“I told you I loved you,” she said. “Did you not believe me?”

“You can love people you don’t want to be with,” he said. As they got closer to the heart of the issue his palms started to itch. He rubbed them on his pant leg. Soon he would be clammy and overwhelmed; he could already feel the imaginary gulf below him threatening to drag him into the void. But he had to know. “You can love people you’re _ashamed_ of - you can, Megan. Don’t argue. You know I’m right.”

“Oh my god,’ she said. “Is that how I made you feel? You think I’m ashamed.”

He nodded. There was a little lump in his throat for a second; he waited for it to go away before speaking. “I mean, maybe. I didn’t feel great when you hide me away in the bathroom like I was a dirty pair of socks. You couldn’t stand for Don to see me with you.”

“No,” she said. “No, no. I couldn’t stand for Don to ruin things. To say or do something that would make you hate me. Because that’s what he does. And I didn’t know if - I didn’t know if he’d freak out, or hit you, or what.”

“Hit me?” Ginsberg asked, baffled. “Why would Don hit me? How would that even be a possibility?” As she slouched in her chair, avoiding answering, a terrible suspicion took hold of him. “Did he hit _you_?”

Megan shook her head vehemently. “No,” she said. “What happened was - we got in this fight; he’d left me at Howard Johnson’s - anyway. He didn’t hit me, he kind of - tackled me. I was okay, really. But he scared me.” She sighed and smoothed out the hem of her skirt. “I guess I’m not as over it as I thought.”

Ginsberg could remember the day she had gone to Howard Johnsons. They hadn’t been friends back then, only coworkers, but it stuck out in his memory because she’d looked so unhappy about leaving. And no wonder. “Holy shit. I should never have left you alone with him. I don’t care how many bathroom doors you wanted to put between us.”

Megan stared at him before turning her head and letting loose a big laugh. She put a hand over her mouth and then dropped it, palm up, onto the surface of the table. Like an invitation. Her eyes were warm. “Jesus Christ, Michael. I’m trying to apologize. Stop trying to make everything your fault.”

He let their fingers tangle together. “Sorry,” he said. It made her laugh again, which was what he had been hoping for.

She squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry I trapped you in a bathroom and didn’t tell you why. And I’m sorry I accused you of being drunk. You aren’t Don. I can’t treat you like you’re him.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Or apology accepted. That’s what people say, right?”

“It’s a standard for a reason,” she said. “Tell me what you want. Do you want to keep going on like we have been?”

“I want,” he said, and looked back at his apartment. The wallpaper was dark from dirt in the corners. The furniture was cheap and disposable. He hadn’t put any pictures on the walls. It wasn’t his home. “I want to live with you, the way a husband is supposed to. I want to go to Paris with you or Niagara Falls or where the fuck ever. I want to have crappy holiday dinners with your parents, where we both wish they would leave. I want my father to start bugging us about kids, even though we aren’t having any. I want to be married to you, Megan. Maybe that’s not much of a proposal, but it’s the only one I got.”

“It’s a fantastic proposal,” she said. Her eyes were wet, but not in a bad way. “The most perfect one I’ve ever heard.”

She didn’t say yes in words, but she didn’t have to.

 

 

“Megan,” Ginsberg said, flat on his back in her bed. Their bed. “I know post-fight sex is traditional -”

“Yes?”

“- but I didn’t expect it to be this elaborate.”

She tightened the knot she was working on. The headboard didn’t have posts, so she had to wrap one end of the scarf around his wrist and the other around the leg of the bed frame. She got him pinned down nice and firm. The scarves matched. He suspected she bought them with a specific purpose in mind.

“Serves you right for making that divorce comment,” she said. “Now you can’t leave.” One last tug and the knot was arranged to her satisfaction. She was draped across him, hanging over the edge of the bed. If his hands were free he would have tickled her bare feet.

“I guess I do have it coming,” Ginsberg said. He wasn’t so sure about the game, himself. Not that he disliked it. He just - he probably looked really goofy, tied to his bed in his boxer shorts. A bad joke in the back of a men’s magazine. Not a very attractive picture.

But when Megan re-emerged her face was bright with desire, her eyes sly and satisfied. “You look just like I imagined.”

She pulled his shorts off. There were no surprises in his nudity; she had seen all there was to see. But somehow having the option to cover himself taken away made him feel all the more exposed. He closed his eyes when telltale heat blossomed across his cheeks.

Megan kissed the inside of his thigh.

“Shit,” he gasped. He tried to touch her on instinct. Not being able to - having to _take_ what she gave him -

She drew her nightgown over her head. Slowly. “Patience, sweetheart,” she said. “We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

“Please,” he said, begging already, letting her have anything she wanted.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go \o/


	11. Chapter 11

 

 

 

“So that’s it?” Megan asked. She slipped the papers she had been given into her purse and snapped it shut. “We’re done for good?”

Her lawyer folded his hands over his stomach and tilted his office chair back. “Sure are. Want to break out the champagne?”

“God,” she said. “Don’t tempt me. I still have to drive home.”

He reached over and took the receiver of the phone off its cradle before handing it to her. She accepted it blankly. It hadn’t been ringing. What was she supposed to do?

“Call your husband,” he explained. “The spouse always wants to know. I’ve seen marriages break up over less.”

“Oh!” said Megan. She pulled the phone towards her and started to dial Michael’s direct line. “You’re right. I’ve been so distracted.”

He left to give her some privacy. “Hey,” she said, as soon as Michael picked up. “Are you doing anything important?”

“Nothing is so important that I can’t make time for you,” he said.

“You dork,” she said. They were becoming one of those couples everyone hated. She loved it. “You want to go for dinner? I have some news. The good kind.”

They met at a Chinese restaurant not far from Michael’s office. He liked the tea and the dumplings; Megan liked the egg rolls. “So what is it?” he asked as soon as they sat down. “Don’t leave me waiting. I could use some good news.”

“I got my assessment from the IRS,” Megan said. “The audit’s done. I went over it with my lawyer and everything. We’re going to be fine.” A warmth spread through her at being able to say that ‘we’ and mean it; at feeling sure for once in her life.

Michael whooped and jumped up from his seat, right there in the restaurant, and ran over to hug her. “Michael!” Megan said, but she also laughed.

“I can’t help it,” he said. “I know how worried you were. Let your husband be glad for you.”

“Okay,” she said, and squeezed his hand. “You should probably sit back down, though. You’re kind of in the way of the waitress.”

He opened the menu when he did. “So do you want to order seperately or just split something?”

“We’ll split,” she said. “Why did you say you needed some good news?”

He paused in his examination of the menu, and then put it down. “Because they’re shuttering my office,” he said, in a curiously flat voice. “Yeah. They called and said so, this afternoon. We got about a month left.”

Megan’s face fell. “Oh my god,” she said. “And here I was going on about -”

“Megan,” he interrupted, waving a hand at her. “Don’t apologize, okay? Not for being happy. When I said I was glad I meant it.”

“How do you feel about it?” she asked. “I mean, are you okay?”

“I kind of am?” he said. “I know that runs against anything I have ever done in my life, but it’s true. I’m maybe a little disappointed, but - it’s been a long time since I’ve liked my job. Head office blocks me every chance they get. And I’m not some green behind the ears kid anymore. I can go somewhere else, now. Or do something else, even.”

The expression was wet behind the ears, but she wasn’t about to correct him. “Wow,” she said. “I am so proud right now. And a little turned on. I like the way this new confidence looks on you.”

He went pink and busied himself with the menu once again. “We’re in public, Megan.”

“How did Meredith take it?”

“Meredith is indestructible. Meredith will outlast us all.”

“Would you do something else?” she asked. “Besides advertising.”

“I don’t know. I have to think about it.”

She wanted to tell him a lot of things: that she would support him no matter what he chose to do, that he didn’t have to worry about money, that he’d done a good job and it wasn’t his fault things turned out the way they did. But he already looked tired; she decided not to bombard him with assurances that might or might not help. Besides, he knew most of them already.

“What can I do?” she asked. “What do you want from me?”

He gave her a sweet smile. “All I want is to have a good night,” he said, “and to go home with you at the end of it.”

 

 

But he _was_ nervous, no matter what he said. She saw it in him that night when he undressed for bed, in the way his fingers stuttered over his shirt buttons.

“Um,” he said, as he got into bed with her.

“Yes?”

“Do you want to share a smoke?”

Megan’s brow furrowed. “Cigarettes? I gave them up, remember? Don’t tell me you decided to start.”

“No,” he said, his eyes darting back and forth. “I meant… the other stuff.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Forget it,” he said, rolling over and taking half the blankets with him. “It was just an idea.”

Megan threw down the magazine she was reading. “Hey, come back here.” She pulled on his shoulder until he looked at her. “Are you serious?”

He shrugged, somewhat restrained by the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. “I thought it might help me sleep. I dunno.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Megan. “This is monumental.”

“Once,” he said. “Just this once, Megan, do you hear me?” She was already climbing over him to go for her stash.

Thirty minutes later he was on his back with his head in her lap, playing with the loose ends of her hair. “You’re so pretty,” he said. “Have I told you that? I can’t believe you married me.”

“I love being married to you,” Megan said. She was experiencing the world through a gentle green haze. “It’s the best marriage I’ve ever had. Okay, so, I’ve only been married twice and the last time was terrible but what I mean is that you’re great. You’re really, really great. I want you all the time but I - I like you, too, you know, just for hanging out with. But also for sex. You know what? We should have sex, right now. Michael? Are you listening?”

But Michael didn’t answer. He had fallen asleep.

 

 

Megan adjusted her hat, which was pale gray with a wide, floppy brim. It matched her blouse, and she had paired it with yellow bellbottoms and white sandals. She wanted to look professional and grown-up, but not like a fuddy-duddy. She loathed suits.

“What do you think?” she asked Michael, who was reading a science fiction magazine on the couch. It had an alien on the front that looked like a cross between a pinecone and an octopus. Men in spacesuits were shooting at it.

“You look beautiful,” he said. “And real classy, too. You must be really trying to impress somebody.”

“You know how it is when you meet an old friend,” she said. “You always want to look your best.”

“I hope she appreciates it as much as I do,” Michael said, who would probably have shown up to greet royalty in a cardigan with a patch on the elbow.

“I’m sure she will,” Megan said. “Want me to bring you home anything?”

“Nah,” he said. “Go. Have fun. Don’t worry about me. I’m supposed to be fixing up my portfolio, anyway.”

He didn’t ask her where she was going to be, or who exactly she was going to be with. All she’d told him was that she was meeting an acquaintance for lunch. Megan was relieved. If she was still married to Don she would have been subjected to a pop quiz. And she didn’t want to tell Michael the details, not yet. Not until the meeting was over and she had a clearer picture of what possibilities were available for her. No, for them.

Megan got to the restaurant early and took a table by the window. It gave her a clear view of the street, so she saw when her guest got out of a cab. She had on a maxi dress that didn’t look much like anything Megan had seen her wear in New York, in a swirling green pattern. Her hair was down, which was also unfamiliar.

Megan stood up before she realized how stupid that looked; like she was formally receiving the aristocracy or something. But hell, Joan made her nervous. She always had. She was so together that standing next to her sometimes made Megan feel like an overgrown teenager.

Joan swept in and folded Megan into a brief hug. She seemed awfully fresh for someone who had just gotten off a plane a few hours before.

“So where is it?” she asked as she sat down.

“Where’s what?” Megan asked.

Joan gave her a look. “The _ring_.”

“I guess Peggy told you,” Megan said. She held out her hand to show off her ruby, resisting the urge to cover it protectively. Michael had asked her if she wanted a different one, but she liked what she had. It had served them well so far. “I’ve never been a diamonds kind of girl.”

“It’s lovely,” said Joan. “Antique?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Our wedding was a little bit - impromptu.”

“I can see the appeal of that,” Joan said. “And a belated congratulations.” Megan could tell she was curious - anyone who knew their histories would be - but she was too polite to ask. So they moved on to lunch. Business could wait for the mimosas afterwards.

Joan moved her glass aside. “Have you spoken to anyone at McCann about your plans?”

“No,” said Megan. She would have to speak to Michael first, for one thing. “I wanted to get some background from you, first off. What it would cost. How likely it is that they’d even go for it. If this is something we can even manage - neither of us are exactly numbers people. I figured you would know.” She felt just the same as she had at her SCDP interview all those years ago, hoping her enthusiasm made up for her inexperience. “I want to be good at this. It’s important.”

“That’s smart,” Joan said. “You don’t want to go in unprepared. Did you bring a notebook?”

Megan had. She remembered what working for Joan had been like. She opened it and took a pen out of her purse. “Okay. Should we begin with the start up capital? What would be a reasonable amount to offer them? What would we need to get an office going? The rent in that one he’s in is sky high - I don’t want to take it over.”

Joan paused for a moment, as though surprised. “You _have_ thought this out.”

“Uh,” said Megan. “Yeah, I suppose. It’s kind of been in the wind for a while.”

“No, I’m glad to see it,” said Joan. “I’m impressed, honestly.”

“Thanks,” Megan said, probably too eagerly. Jesus, she was pretty sure she was blushing. “So what do I need to know about startup capital?”

Joan crossed her legs. She looked very Hollywood suddenly, Megan thought, with her beachy dress and sunglasses pushed up into her hair.

“That depends,” she said. “How much of it am I giving you?”

 

 

“Come over here,” Megan said to Michael, later that night when he was in the kitchen stuffing a chicken. “No - wash your hands first,” she clarified, because he headed towards her right away. Well, there was something to be said for a man who could take instruction.

“What is it?” he asked, drying his hands on a dishtowel. “There something on the TV?”

“No,” she said. “Sit down for a minute. I want to tell you about an idea I had today.”

“Okay,” he said with a shrug. “I like ideas.”

She slid a look sideways at him. “Have you decided what you want to do for work yet? After they close your office?”

He scratched the back of his head. “I guess - not yet? Nothing specific. Apply other places. Why?”

Megan took a deep breath. “What if I told you could be your own boss?”

He laughed. “How? You’re gonna pay me?”

“Not exactly.”

Michael stared at her, the dishtowel thrown across his thigh. “Megan. You don’t need to do that. I can get a job. I’m not -”

“No, no,” she said, quickly. “You’re misunderstanding me. I don’t want to give you an allowance.”

He crossed his arms and leaned back. “What, then? You think I should freelance?”

“Not exactly,” she said again. “Remember when I said I was going for lunch with a friend?”

“Yeah?”

“It was Joan.”

“Joan?” he said, puzzling it over. “Joan - as in Harris? Joan Harris?”

“Yes. But she goes by Holloway now. Her maiden name.”

“I didn’t know you were friends.”

“We aren’t,” she said. “Not quite. We met to talk about a business idea I had. And about, um. You.”

He pushed himself upright, palms flat on the cushions. “What about me?”

“Don’t get mad.”

“Megan -”

“I think you should open your own advertising agency,” she said. “And I went to talk to Joan about it. She says she thinks McCann would be okay with you purchasing your local client list from them - they’re mostly small companies, and they get neglected by the head office. Some of them would still drop you because they wouldn’t want to work with an independent agency, but she predicted most would stay. She doesn’t believe it would cost more than twelve thousand dollars, which I have and anyway -”

“Holy shit,” he said.

“- she wants to give us four thousand of it. So she can be an investor.”

“Holy _shit_.”

“I know,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting it either. I really just wanted financial advice.”

“But why?” He looked completely flabbergasted, like she’d announced they were going to go live in a boat on the south seas. “What does Joan get out of it?”

“Joan has a production company,” Megan said. “We need someone to shoot commercials. Do the math. It’s a natural fit. And she says it’s not half as crazy as how SCDP started.”

He put his hands over his face and stood up. The dishtowel fell to the floor. “I can’t,” he said. “It’s too much pressure.”

“Michael,” she said, sighing, but he pulled away from her.

“It’s not you,” he said as he paced back and forth. “It’s not you, you’re too good to me. Oh my god, way too good. To even _suggest_ \- but I can’t. I’d screw it up. You’d lose all that money. So would Joan.”

Megan caught at the hem of his shirt as he passed. “But you’re already doing it. Every day, you go to work and do exactly what I’m suggesting.”

“That’s different,” he said. “I’m not letting down anyone I love if I fall apart in a meeting, or fuck up a pitch -”

“So what if you do?” she said. “It’s not a crime to fail. Nothing would change between us if you did.”

“How can you know?”

“Because I _know_ ,” she said. “We could try it for a year. And pack it up, try something else, if it didn’t work.”

“I have to sit down,” he said, and abruptly did so, with his head between his knees. “Okay,” he kept saying. “Okay, what if I - what if I did, what if I said yes. I’m saying yes. Oh god, I said yes.”

“How about I put the chicken in,” Megan said, rubbing his back. “And you stay there and relax.”

 

 

Michael got up and went into the living room to answer the phone. He must have been happy to escape. Megan couldn’t blame him, if he was.

But she was being unfair. He was handling the barrage of questions fairly well, with no more than a crumpled napkin and one dropped glass as proof of his nerves - and Roger and her mother weren’t being _too_ terrible.

They had descended upon Los Angeles mere days after Megan had told her mother about their marriage. No warning, of course - they just showed up at the door, bags in hand, while Megan and Michael stumbled around in their bathrobes in morning confusion. Thank god their place was too small to host guests; Roger and Megan had been able to talk Marie into a hotel pretty quick. No one her age - or his - actually wanted to sleep on a fold-out.

(“Why didn’t you tell me this?” her mother had demanded, over the phone. “And who is Michael Ginsberg? Who - Roger. Roger, why are you laughing?”)

Roger’s mustache had morphed into a beard. Marie’s hair had acquired a chestnut tint that made her look softer. Marie kept pointing silent judgement in her direction; for Michael’s old shirt and folded up jeans, for Megan’s choice to order takeout (goddamn it if she was going to be pushed into cooking for this). For Roger, it was amusement. But things certainly could have been worse. And then the phone rang.

“Megan,” said Michael, pointing to the receiver. “It’s for you.”

She excused herself and went to answer the call. “Please contain them,” she whispered to him as he went by. He had to fight to keep the grin off his face.

“Hello?” she said, and upon hearing the voice on the other end she knew that she couldn’t have this conversation in the living room. She covered the reciever with her palm. “Michael, can you hang this up in a minute? I’ll get it in the bedroom.”

“Hi,” she said again, once she was safely inside. Through the cracked open door she could see Michael casually moving the wine bottle out of Marie’s reach. She felt a swell of pride and affection. “I wasn’t sure if you’d get my message.”

“Yeah,” said Sally. She even sounded older, more mature. “I was busy for a couple of days, that’s all. Is there something you wanted?”

“No,” said Megan. “Nothing in particular. I was wondering how you were doing.”

There was a silence on the other end. “Oh,” Sally said. “I guess you heard about Betty, huh?”

That girl always was way too sharp. “I did,” Megan admitted. “Only very recently. I would have called earlier if I’d known.”

“So you want to know how the orphans are holding up,” said Sally, “or whatever.”

“Honestly, Sally? I thought you might want to talk about anything else.”

“That would be alright,” said Sally, cautiously, and with a note of the dry humor that Megan remembered. “I could tell you about how much I hate my roommate. She leaves her toenail clippings all over the floor.”

Megan fluffed up her pillows and sank back into them, settling in for the long haul. “Whatever you’d like, sweetheart,” she said. “Go ahead. I’m right here.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... and we're done! Thanks for sticking with me, everyone. (Joan's explanation of how to separate from McCann may or may not be accurate; I made it up.) Hope you all enjoyed the ride.


End file.
